Legacy
By Carla Jane
jimcarla@hotmail.com

Beta reading, hand holding and heavy duty plot assistance are courtesy of my o’ best beloved, Erika:
Visual inspiration for this story was courtesy of Jommy

Rating: NC-17 overall, see the ‘notes’ for details
Date: July 2003
Disclaimers: Tolkien, Jackson and various artists created this version of these characters that I am now mangling beyond recognition.

Notes: This started out as a simple little something that a listkeeper named Deanna provoked me into considering… but then Erika said it needed background… then things got even kinkier than I’d planned at the start… and the characters demanded more explanation. Sigh. Well, the point is, this isn’t exactly a ‘Lord of the Rings’ story anymore. Sorry. It’s more like a really twisted, soap opera set in Gondor, Rohan and Mordor using some distorted reflection of Tolkien’s creations.
Okay, we know Denethor married Finduilas and begat 2 boys, Boromir and Faramir, now imagine that Denethor also married Theodwyn and had 1 boy and 1 girl, Eomer and Eowyn. Yeap… I’ve messed with timelines and ages as well as the lines of parenting… but what the hell, if I’m doing an alternate universe, I might as well do an ALTERNATE universe. It's RATED NC17 for male/male and male/female sexual relationships… including a great deal of INCEST… and some inappropriate relations with an underage boy that would disgust me in real life… but this is just a messed up piece of fiction, okay.



In another Middle-Earth:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But in the Riddermark…” Eowyn began.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He’s the prince.”

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not a dragon?”

“I would chop it’s head off.”

“Not a ghost covered in seaweed and chains?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Faramir flinched as if he’d been struck.

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

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

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

“You were good with me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Boromir,” Faramir pushed. “Did you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Boromir froze.

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re only fourteen!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My lord father.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course you do.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

“YOU!” The king bellowed out the word loud enough that every man, woman, and child in the hall flinched. Only Aragorn seemed unimpressed at the show of fury. “YOU have no right to be here in my halls, monster! Be gone with you,” Denethor dismissed him loudly, even as his hand rested on the hilt of his sword in silent warning. The king’s heirloom sword was one of the few weapons in Middle Earth that could harm Aragorn, given the right circumstances. This was not one of those circumstances, but Denethor had no way of knowing that.

“You are mistaken, Denethor,” Aragorn argued softly. Gasps of shock at the show of disrespect sounded all about the pair. “I come, as always, by direct invitation.” Aragorn couldn’t contain the smug smile that accompanied the news. “One of your offspring summoned me, as is the right of the royal house of Gondor.” He didn’t indicate Eowyn, but instead paced over until he could lean on the table directly in front of Boromir, purposefully giving the wrong impression.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One voice broke the silence. “Father.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But Boromir…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You really should drink more.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Boromir struck out, only to have his fists captured and held by Aragorn. “I’ve seen inside Denethor’s mind and your’s as well,” Aragorn whispered. “I know everything filthy thing he’s done to you, boy… and how you felt as it happened. I can taste your despair, the shame that suffused you when his attentions stiffened you and his fierce ecstasy as you wept and erupted at the same time. I know you were counting the hours until you left for the Golden Hall. I also know that your father was planning to use and impregnate the girl he was sending to become your wife so she could give you an heir without ever allowing you to touch her.” Aragorn brushed his lips against skin. “I know every nasty thought swirling through your mind, my golden one, including the urges you’ve had to kill your father while he slept.”

“I would never…”

“But you thought about it, you’ve fantasized about it,” Aragorn countered in a low tone. “Not that I disapprove. Denethor has used you badly.” Gentling his grip, Aragorn smoothed up from Boromir’s wrists until his hands rested on the blond’s shoulders. “You should be able to take pleasure in the slide of body on body, not dread it. You should be cherished, not abused.”

Boromir’s expression was wary but he didn’t retreat from Aragorn’s touch. Green eyes studied Aragorn’s face, searching for a sign that he was being mocked. “I want neither. I want nothing to do with a physical relationship with anyone. I simply wish to protect my brother and serve my country.”

“Duty is cold comfort for one so young and vibrant as you, Boromir. Are you passionate about anything, my prince? Have you ever felt so alive that you wanted to scream out to the world how wonderful life was?” Aragorn plucked at Boromir’s memories and got a flash of Boromir riding as fast as his horse would run with Faramir in hot pursuit. The image made Aragorn smile. What a pair the brothers where. It was a pity Eowyn hadn’t wanted to be rid of them both. Daring further, Aragorn raised his hand to brush back Boromir’s hair. “I will show you passion.”

“I want nothing to do with passion.” Boromir pulled away, pacing to the far side of the balcony. “Passion is just another word for pain.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” Aragorn stalked after him. Catching Boromir’s upper arm, Aragorn dragged the other back around to face him. “You are desperate to feel real passion, my prince. There’s years worth of need throbbing within you, just waiting for the right touch before blazing alight… and that touch is mine.”

Forestalling any argument, Aragorn captured Boromir’s mouth with his own. Boromir’s struggle was mostly internal. Years of training to ‘be still’ under a demanding kiss warred with long standing orders to NEVER let anyone but Denethor lay hands on him. Complicating things further was the fact that the kiss felt wonderful. It seduced as well as mastered. Boromir found himself melting under the extended, sensual exploration. Without even realizing it was happening, Boromir was bent back over the heavy, wide railing behind him.

Aragorn’s hands weren’t still. Fingers stroked clothed muscle before plucking at the fastenings to Boromir’s formal dinner clothes. His body flexed, rubbing against Boromir’s. When Boromir gasped for air, Aragorn’s mouth shifted. Boromir’s jaw and ears were mapped out with open-mouthed kisses and delicate nips.

Head thrown back, Boromir stared, half-blinded, at the sky. He watched the dully gleaming sun track impossibly far in an arch above them while Aragorn’s attentions drifted lower, burning bare skin. Bright pain pierced the haze briefly, sending a flare of hot sensation outward from Boromir’s upper chest. Boromir meant to give voice to how the pang felt but his breath was stolen away by warm fingers slipping into his leggings and cupping his groin.

Dry, smoky air tickled Boromir’s bared front and ruffled his hair so slowly that it felt more like water rushing over him than wind. Sound had completely muted, becoming nothing more than a dull roar. Reaching blindly, Boromir’s hand settled into thick hair.

Aragorn was dropping little by little before Boromir, leaving trails of fire and ice everywhere his demanding mouth touched. A hand that almost felt like it was tipped with claws pushed at Boromir’s upper body. The horizon tilted. Boromir attempted to widen his stance but his ankles were hobbled. Snatching for support, Boromir’s one hand fisted into Aragorn’s hair while the other scraped on stone.

“I have you. Relax.”

Aragorn’s assurance seemed to burrow straight into Boromir’s mind rather than come through his ears. It was beyond Boromir’s ability to disobey at first, but when shockingly wet heat closed around his half-erect shaft, he completely tensed up. Boromir had never experienced anything like this feeling in his entire life. It had nothing in common with Denethor’s demanding fingers or Boromir’s own embarrassing and rare bouts of self-gratification. There was no way to hold in the scream of pleasure that tore out in reaction to the attention.

Boromir had to close his eyes. The explosions inside his eyelids were bad enough without being superimposed on the blurring, upside-down landscape of Mordor.

*

Denethor seemed to hold all the information that Faramir required but there was no way of forcing him to share that knowledge. Faramir also realized that asking anyone else in the Tower would be a lost cause. What he had to do was to get out from under Denethor’s immediate influence. There wasn’t much time to waste. Sooner, more likely than later, Father’s shock would wear off and Faramir might find himself under arrest for the things he had said.

Faramir dared to linger long enough to make two stops, but both proved fruitless. Neither the Tower’s senior scholar nor Melador, the royal arms master would tell Faramir anything. Both had witnessed the scene in the dining-hall and both swore that they had no inkling of where the creature had come from or what it was. Faramir suspected they were lying but he had no way to make them say anymore.

By the time Faramir reached the stables he was in a mood to strangle someone. It was more than a little surprising to find only one person there. Eomer had Boromir’s horse out and fully loaded-up for a long journey. Eomer’s own mount was saddled with Faramir’s tack. The pair of them were the finest animals in all of Minas Tirith. Father was going to be furious. Eomer was checking the straps on his much-beloved mare as Faramir came to a shocked halt.

“If it was you or Eowyn…” Eomer shrugged and ran his hand along his horse’s neck as if saying farewell to a dear friend. “I would do the same thing.”

“Do you know anything about that creature?” Faramir asked, hopeful but not expecting any more aid than the gifts that stood waiting.

Eomer’s head shook. “I saw the same as you… but Faramir… did you actually listen? Did you understand what Father said? Do you realize what it meant?”

Faramir’s expression was puzzled.

Sighing, Eomer passed the reins to his half-brother. “Think hard on our father’s words, Faramir. He spoke of things that never should have been shared with an audience. Not just things about that intruder either.” White-blond brows drew together. “There are things between Boromir and our father that you need to consider.” He gagged briefly before finding his voice once more. “Eowyn has explained it to me. I wish you would take the time to come up and talk with us… but I understand why you can’t delay…” Eomer waved off the protest he saw Faramir about to make. “I know, I know. Just promise that you’ll send us word about where we can reach you. You are very dear to us Faramir, and we don’t want to lose you.”

Giving in to his emotions, Faramir caught Eomer in a hug was a bit desperate on both sides. “If this land isn’t to be Boromir’s…” his voice was faint. “I know Father thinks you will make Gondor a better king than I would, Eomer.” A harder squeeze punctuated the quiet words.

“But he’s wrong. I’ve know that for years, Faramir.” Eomer let out a long, deep breath and drew back so he could urge Faramir to mount the restive horse. “You would do a better job of it than either Boromir or I would. Boromir is a soldier… not a ruler. He would make a fine commander with you as his king, brother-mine,” Eomer observed. “…and myself, I have never wanted Gondor, just the Riddermark. My heart desires the open plain. The farms and cities of Gondor mean nothing to me.”

Faramir grimaced, wishing he had more time to explore what Eomer was saying. “When I bring Boromir back we will settle this properly.” Shifting in the saddle, Faramir looked toward the open stable door. Soldiers might arrive at any moment.

“I’ll hold them off of you for as long as I can,” Eomer promised. “Some of Eowyn’s jewellery is in here,” he patted one of the saddlebags. “She told me to give you leave to sell it for what funds you’ll need. Now ride! Get yourself some distance away from the city and think on what we heard, Faramir. Think long and hard.”

*

Boromir awoke to the sensation of strong fingers tracing over his skin, a custom he was fast becoming enamoured of. The prince was lying on their canopied, curtained bed as nude as the day he was born. Aragorn reclined beside Boromir, tickling his fingers down Boromir’s ribs and hip.

A cup that Boromir could have sworn wasn’t there a moment before was raised in Aragorn’s hand. “Sit up, my golden one. Drink.” Steam rose from the vessel. Accepting it, Boromir discovered the cup was filled with fragrant chicken broth. The broth was salted more heavily than Boromir was accustomed to but it satisfied a craving. As quick as the heat of the liquid allowed, Boromir swallowed it down.

“You need to keep your strength up, lover.” Aragorn caressed a purpled bite near Boromir’s nipple before getting up to fetch a tray from the table.

The food was different than Boromir recalled Frodo delivering earlier… or was it yesterday. Perhaps Aragorn had eaten the other meal while Boromir slept. His lover never seemed to eat when Boromir was paying attention and yet he was healthy and vibrant.

While Boromir mused, Aragorn had picked up a chunk of seasoned meat and pressed it to the blond’s lips. The morsel was accepted because Boromir was desperately hungry, but the prince’s face turned away almost immediately afterward.

“Eat your fill, love.” Aragorn licked his fingers where Boromir had sucked in his eagerness to swallow down the bit of pork. Shifting, Aragorn climbed behind Boromir, offering to support the younger man rather than demanding to feed Boromir.

“Thank you,” Boromir voiced softly. He allowed his weight to settle against Aragorn’s completely dressed form. “For not treating me like a pet,” Boromir finished. Denethor had insisted on hand-feeding Boromir too many times for Boromir to find the situation as anything but degrading.

“When the hunger is too intense upon a man…” Aragorn began. His lips moved against the nape of Boromir’s neck. “It must be satisfied before playing.” Aragorn inhaled with obvious delight. “The branching was an age ago, but I can still scent my daughter’s blood in you, fair Boromir. The royal house of Gondor stayed rather narrow until your father. The kings normally only had one or two children. It kept the heirs from squabbling.” Aragorn’s voice was soft and distracted. “It means I have limited descendants within the realm of Gondor. Luckily that was not the case with my son, my brothers and their offspring up in Dunland and Minhiriath or I would be forever on the edge of starvation.”

Boromir heard the words but was too famished to insist on an explanation at that moment in time. The food before him held most of Boromir’s attention. Oddly, considering the part of the land they were in, the fare was always fresh, wholesome tasting and perfectly prepared. The chunks of buttered potato and cubes of pork were especially satisfying today.

Between his quickly filling stomach and Aragorn’s kisses and massaging touches, Boromir found his mind growing heavy with drowsiness once more. A faint sting on his shoulderblade made Boromir straighten but Aragorn’s mouth suckling at the injury soothed him.

“Eat, drink, then rest some more, my love,” Aragorn advised. His lips impressed the words right into Boromir’s skin. “I’ve errands to run but I’ll be back before your lovely green eyes open again.” Aragorn’s mouth returned to pulling at the flesh of Boromir’s shoulderblade.

The prince managed a few more swallows from a cup of cool juice before he felt the need to fall back into Aragorn’s supporting embrace and let his mind drift into dreams.

*

“White…” Boromir objected without heat, “…is not a practical choice to clothe me in.” He eyed the swaths of gold embroidered silk. “It stains,” Boromir continued.

“We will not be disembowelling any orcs or crawling through marshes,” Aragorn teased gently. “Indulge me, golden one. Lighten the darkness of this fortress for me.” His gaze swept down Boromir’s bare form. “Not that your lovely figure displeases in its natural state, but I know that you are uncomfortable being nude outside of bed.”

Ducking his head to hide the blush on his cheeks, Boromir accepted the bundle. He tossed the pile of fabric on the bed and began to puzzle out the purpose of each garment. At home Boromir had avoided full court-gear whenever possible and the times he couldn’t escape the damned costume a servant or Faramir would normally aid Boromir. That thought made him drop the breeches and frown.

“I must get a message to Faramir,” Boromir announced. “He’s likely worried. It’s been…” His frown cut deeper. “Days?” Turning back to Aragorn, Boromir cocked his head. “How long have I been here? It hasn’t been weeks, has it?” Trying to count sunrises or sunsets was a hopeless task. Most of the time Boromir dozed off in darkness only to wake in the same, but feeling completely refreshed despite the brief sleep. Meals were no help. There was always food in the room and breakfast, lunch or dinner, it was all the same sort of fare. It couldn’t have been too long however, Boromir reasoned, since he and Aragorn had done little except make love.

“It has been but a blink of an eye, my love,” Aragorn assured him. “But long enough that you need to get out and stretch your legs. You can write to Faramir tomorrow. I will see to it that the letter is delivered.” An elegant hand gestured to the clothing once more. “Let me help you with these.”

Having Aragorn dress him completely altered Boromir’s dislike of the process of slipping into court clothing. Aragorn’s lips and flingers worshipped each bit of Boromir’s skin before it vanished under the pale material. Muscles were stroked before the over-layers were pulled into place. The nape of Boromir’s neck was nuzzled as blond hair was carefully fished out from the confines of the high collar. A brief spark of pain at the side of his neck made Boromir wince, but the following warmth had him leaning back into Aragorn’s embrace. The dressing felt like it was taking all morning while it was happening, but only just a few moments once it was done.

“You are the most beautiful man I have ever seen,” Aragorn praised. “Come walk with me.”

The drapery that Boromir was positive led out onto a balcony was drawn back to reveal a moonlit courtyard filled with black stone ruins, tall tangled vines and silvery flowers. Boromir’s gaze shifted from the new vista to the window, positive that sunshine had been pouring in only moments ago. Of course, stars twinkled in a black velvet sky there as well.

“Walk with me, love,” Aragorn beckoned again.

“This does not look like Mordor.” Boromir padded forward to accept Aragorn’s extended hand.

“No, it doesn’t. Does it?” Smiling, Aragorn let the curtain fall behind them. The black drapery seemed to vanish in the darkness of a tall, narrow archway.

Except for the rustle of the cool breeze through foliage, the gardens were deathly silent. Not even a bird call disturbed the still of the half-ruined courtyard.

“What happened to the balcony? How did we get out of the tower? Where are we?” Boromir kept his voice to a whisper.

“We are somewhere private.” Aragorn began walking, drawing his lover along. “Somewhere safe… at least for us.”

In the near distance tall, spiked towers stabbed up into the night sky. A pinkish, full-moon lit their path well enough, but most of the colour was leeched away by the thin light, leaving silvers, grays, black and white, all overlaid by a faint blush of rose.

“I should recognize this place,” Boromir mused softly. “Faramir would know. He paid more attention to our afternoon lessons than I did.”

Boromir’s shoulders were caught and held. Aragorn stared at him a moment then dove in for a kiss. By the time the clinch ended, Boromir was shaking violently. He could taste copper and lust, and his head was spinning. Boromir’s mouth followed Aragorn’s retreating lips, but Boromir was held away by strong hands on his shoulders.

“MORE!” The kiss had ended far too soon. Boromir’s entire body was screaming for it to continue.

Aragorn’s tongue flicked out, cleaning away the hint of glistening darkness on his lips. “Not here. Walk just a little further with me, beloved.” Aragorn led him down the cracked, grass littered pathway. “I stayed here at Carn Dum for a time, but the surrounding lands were unhappy at having me so close so I returned to Barad-dur. Still, I come back to visit fairly often. It was a magnificent castle in it’s time.” Aragorn gazed about himself with a slight smile on his face. “My halfling servants come from a place not far from here.”

Boromir supposed that the information Aragorn was sharing was likely valuable, but he was having difficulty wrapping his mind around anything beyond the urge to drag Aragorn down to the cold ground and ravish him.

“Here… look at this,” Aragorn drew Boromir past a tumbled wall. Spread out below them was a field of tiny white flowers. Above the vast meadow the starry sky seemed almost a reflection. Eyes turned upward, Aragorn took Boromir down crumbling stairs and into the field. Well into the knee-high growth, Aragorn stopped and pushed gently, easing Boromir down into the thick grass and flower-bed.

“Here. I want to have you here. You look just like the moon in the sky. My own light.” Aragorn grinned down. “Invite me into your arms, beloved.”

“Please, Aragorn.” Boromir’s arms lifted. “I need you,” he coaxed.

*

The jewels that Eowyn had gifted Faramir with had brought a fair price, but bribing sources of only minimally helpful information was using a good chunk of his funds. So it was that Faramir had been reluctant to part with the coin but he had been forced to take a room at an inn this night. The weather outside was horrendous. Even if he didn’t want the shelter, since the cold rain and overwhelming mud fit his mood so well, the horses were in need.

Since he had paid for it however, Faramir wasn’t about to completely waste the opportunity to dry out and warm up. He installed himself in a booth not far from either the bar or the fire and sipped at a bowl of broth while his heavy cloak sent up steam as it dried. What he couldn’t decide was if sitting this close to the chattering patrons at the long bar was a good thing or a bad thing.

The topic of conversation among the customers was the royal house of Gondor, which was a rather common occurrence over the last few months. Soldiers, merchants, and even farmers seemed to find the upheaval in the White Tower endlessly fascinating. Everywhere Faramir went he tripped across such discussions, although most were foundless gossip rather than anything useful to his purpose.

“I heard this thing had wings like a dragon and it swept in and carried off the crown prince without so much as a by your leave. I would’ve thought a dragon would’ve taken the princess. I hear she’s a right pretty thing.”

“I’ve a cousin whose wife’s brother was there the night it happened,” One of the better dressed drinkers declared. “He told the truth of it. It’s nothing more than Prince Boromir running off with a lover. Rumour has it the old king was diddling his son and the boy had his fill of it. The king, he yelled it out clear as day to everyone in the room.”

“Boromir is mine!” A silent voice rang inside Faramir’s head making him hunch and shut his eyes against the memories of that terrible day.

“Well, I say we’re better off without the likes of that on the throne.”

Faramir tensed, about to speak up when another man took up the argument for him. “That’s just a disgusting load of garbage. I saw the Prince Boromir once. He was sparring some of the local watch. He’s a right proper lad, the best soldier I ever saw. Not but a stripling he was then, no more’n sixteen… and he took on all ten of the local men one at a time and knocked every one of them down in a fair fight.” The speaker coughed. “Boromir would’ve made a damned fine king. He wouldn’t take no nonsense from the outer territories… it’ll be a hard thing when the other boy takes the throne. Every lord with a hill to stand on and four soldiers will be causing trouble once the king passes on… and who knows if the younger one will be able to keep them in line… the army’s going to suffer without Boromir at the head of it. You’ll see.”

“That may well be, but my cousin’s wife’s brother was serving at the meal and he heard it. He heard the king shouting it out with this man, fighting over the prince… and he says it sounded just like two roosters squabbling over a hen. A hen, that’s what he called Prince Boromir. That don’t sound like the sort of man most soldiers want giving them orders.”

Faramir scrubbed at his forehead, shoving damp tendrils of hair out of his eyes. “No one has ever had him. No one ever will.” The inner voice ricocheted around inside his mind yet again. “He has always been mine. He will always be mine!” Faramir gritted his teeth and dug his fingers into his scalp under cover of his cloak. It was nonsense, nonsense he’d heard echoed in taverns, way-houses and marketplaces all around the kingdom lately, but still nonsense. Father had meant he held Boromir’s loyalty, nothing more. If the imaginations of the common folk saw something more in the words it was only because their own lives lacked intrigue and colour.

“Word of it was slow going out too. There’s places that still had their parties… celebrating the Prince’s twenty-first birthday. Young Boromir is disgraced… disowned… but they’re dancing about bonfires and toasting to the Prince’s health. We was celebrating finally having a man waiting on the throne instead of unbearded boy for a change… but low and behold, we’re back to now. The empire is resting on the shoulders of a couple of boys. That’s all we have if something were to happen to the king. Two boys barely old enough to ride out with the guard and useless girl.”

“I was at one of those parties.” An earlier voice chimed back in. “I felt like right proper fool later on when the news reached us.” His voice grew sly. “Mind you, there’s many a place that did it again this year, despite orders from Minas Tirith. I saw it myself… a batch of soldiers at a tavern… toasting to Boromir’s twenty-second birthday. Their commander was right there in the middle of too… not complaining, but leading the well-wishes.”

How could he have missed Boromir’s birthday? Faramir scolded himself for not even knowing where he had been that particular day. Somewhere in the mind-numbing grind of searching and travelling an entire year had slipped away. It was unthinkable. Faramir half wanted to listen to the conversation, but the demon’s voice was inside his head with father’s now, weaving its dark magic. “The duties you constantly demand him to perform strangle his spirit. He wishes to come away with me and be my lover instead.” It had meant Boromir’s princely duties; the travelling, the law-enforcing, the diplomatic duties. It had to have meant that. “Instead.” That one word tormented Faramir. Of course a love affair would be more fun than work. That’s all that word meant.

Faramir rested his head in his hands. He was just weary of travelling and never-ending disappointment. These flights of fancy were nothing more than his thoughts spinning in a circle and feeding off themselves. It was ridiculous. “This is much more to your liking than the other bed you are normally bound to, is it not?” That particular memory stabbed harder and deeper than any of the others, but it was the demon who spoke it, not father. A creature like that was nothing but a liar. It couldn’t be true. Boromir would have told him. No one was closer than Faramir was to his brother. He would have seen, would have known. Boromir wouldn’t have been able to hide something like that.

So what if Boromir was always having meetings with father right at bedtime? It was the calmest time of the day. It was likely scheduled that way so father could settle himself for the night by visiting with the one he loved best in the world. If Boromir took no lovers it was only because he had no time or energy for it. He had told Faramir that once. All Boromir cared about was his little brother and his country. Besides, father had picked a wife out for Boromir. Faramir was supposed to have collected and taken the girl to his brother before the mess occurred.

The men were still gossiping, but Faramir could listen to no more of it. This line of speculation never failed to turn his stomach and give him screaming nightmares for the next few nights. He didn’t dare listen. They had nothing to say that he hadn’t heard a hundred times before in a hundred different locations. No one seemed to be able to tell him anything useful. No information on what the demon was, where it had come from, or where it might dwell was forthcoming. Everyone was too preoccupied by the reasons for Boromir’s disappearance and the terrible mood the king had been in ever since.

Maybe it was time to sneak back into Minas Tirith. Eomer might have found something out. He or Eowyn might have some bit of information that could put Faramir on a different path, one that lead to answers instead of more hateful gossip.

*

“Imladris misses the elves. That’s why it’s always winter here these days,” Aragorn explained the blanket of white and silver all around them. He stood behind Boromir, wrapping his arms around his lover’s chest and holding tight. “Even when the grass of the plains of Rohan is brown and brittle from the high-summer heat, Imladris remains frosted over.”

Boromir kicked a small chunk of snow off the arching stone bridge with the toe of his boot. It fell into the icy water below them, dissolving immediately. “There is a terrible sadness about this place.” A dull shimmer of light glinted off the ice that decorated the waterfall.

“It was already autumn here when my mother first brought me to Rivendell, hoping to hide me from the curse of our line. I believe that it was I who caused the winter to fall upon this land,” Aragorn whispered. “The leaves finished falling and the snow came when my destiny caught up to me and set the elves to flight. Elrond took his children went west. Imladris mourns.” Aragorn’s warm breath puffed against Boromir’s ear.

“Are they all gone, the elves? One of my teachers insists a few still linger, but everyone else claims the last of them left the shores of Middle-Earth before I was born.” Boromir felt unnaturally heavy and slow-witted today. He had since he’d awoken this morning… or was it evening. Looking up at the sky showed him silvered branches. Boromir had to blink several times to focus his eyes beyond the glistening boughs and absorb the fact it was the moon he saw and not the sun. It was strange, spending so much time in twilight and shadow. Boromir couldn’t recall the last time he’d felt the welcome heat of the mid-afternoon sun on his face.

Aragorn, as if sensing the effort Boromir was putting into gazing upward, turned Boromir around so they were face to face. Cool fingers traced over Boromir’s features, making his lashes flutter and his eyes close. “A very few remain,” he continued vaguely, most of his concentration on his lover rather than on his words. “But whether they were of Mirkwood or Rivendell, they have all withdrawn to Lothlorien and seldom step outside that enchanted wood.” Aragorn leaned in to brush a kiss over Boromir’s lips. “I thought I loved an elf once… back before my Argonui husk grew weary and I needed to renew my gift into this body. Arwen turned away, broke her troth with me, when she saw the change. She chose to leave with her father and brothers, claiming I wasn’t myself any longer once I had melded with my ancestors. Her’s was the last ship to sail from the Grey Havens.” Aragorn’s arms tightened. “But you, my love, you are more dear to me than she ever was.”

Drawing back, Aragorn took Boromir’s hand and tugged. “Come,” he urged, leading the way off the icy bridge and back under the concealment of tangled branches. They walked a slippery, littered pathway where the tree trucks crowded close. Aragorn didn’t stop until the gloom was all pervading, turning everything grey and shadowy. In a bit of open ground, Aragorn dragged his lover down to the cold earth.

Boromir felt, rather than saw, the slab of rough stone that Aragorn pressed his spine against. A silent statue of female figure loomed above them like a sentry. The stone and frozen soil gave him chills, even through the heavy fur cloak that draped over his shoulders.

Aragorn however seemed immune to the cold. “I’ve a gift I wish to give you, my love.” With a few graceful movements, Aragorn kicked off his boots and stripped off his leggings. When he settled once more it was to straddle Boromir’s lap. Aragorn’s odd cape flowed, spreading out to shelter them both, creating a pocket of warmth within its considerable folds. Fingers plucked at the ties over the crotch of Boromir’s trousers.

“What are you…AH! Aragorn!” Boromir’s question was cut off by a moan and a wracking shiver as his pants were yanked down and Aragorn’s cool fingers slipped inside to curl around his cock. “I can’t…” Boromir attempted to part his legs in welcome, but his clothing hadn’t been displaced far enough for that.

“No,” Aragorn murmured softly against Boromir’s lips. “This time I want you to come inside of me, love.”

Boromir’s only verbal response was a whimper and his body quaked. Blood raced and his hips jerked upward of their own accord. The reaction made Aragorn inhale deeply. His lips parted and Aragorn’s open mouth traced a path across Boromir’s jaw and downward until it pressed to the racing pulse at the side of his arched neck.

Their bodies shifted, Aragorn controlling the movements. Bare skin slid and coaxed. Boromir’s erection nestled briefly between the cheeks of Aragorn’s behind. Boromir was shaking violently at the prospect of penetrating another body for the first time in his life.

Aragorn tightened his behind, laughed softly at the noise that broke his lover’s lips, and then readjusted himself higher. “It’s all right, my darling one.” He whispered against the skin of Boromir’s throat. Reaching a hand back, Aragorn held Boromir’s erection steady so he could sink slowly down upon it until he was seated against strong thighs.

“I can’t, I’ve never… I don’t know how… I... Oh Aragorn! It feels so…”

“Shush love. Let me.” Aragorn rocked slowly at first, shifting into broader movements as Boromir strained against the action. Aragorn’s cloak was shaken back as he reached around Boromir to dig his fingers into Gilraen’s crumbling memorial for leverage. The cold air shocked against fever hot bodies, a delightful sensation.

Roughing sensitive skin to pink with the flats of his bottom teeth, Aragorn waited impatiently as Boromir’s passion roused ever higher. He threw himself into the simple pleasure of bodies crashing together. A beginning wail and the quaking of Boromir’s body was the signal Aragorn was waiting for. Just as Boromir’s spine started to arch up into orgasm, Aragorn bit down hard. Liquid fire filled his mouth and his body at the same time, jolting Aragorn’s system deliciously. A scream of shock and intense pleasure from Boromir made the treat all the richer. Aragorn swallowed as his lower muscles clenched down around twitching flesh.

Boromir spasmed, striking out for half a second, and then clutching Aragorn even tighter. Fingernails dug in, cutting skin. Several, even more violent shudders ripped out of Boromir before he went limp underneath his lover. Aragorn gasped, forcing himself to unlatch from Boromir’s exposed throat and licking his lips so as not to lose a single precious drop of blood. He wiped at the corners of his mouth with his thumb, and then sucked the digit briefly before leaning in to lick at the trickle of blood that still leaked from Boromir’s bitten throat.

Moving quickly, Aragorn gathered up his lover. Aragorn had never taken such a deep draught of his lover before this and it would be days before he could dare to take any more. His pants were abandoned. Boromir needed to be returned to the warmth and comfort of Barad-dur immediately so he could be tended by the hobbits and restored to full strength. With the right brew in Boromir’s system and the euphoria that would have come from both the bite and the sex, the prince would most likely write the last few moments of their tryst off as his imagination running amok.

*

Eowyn’s fingers moved restlessly. She plaited a braid into Eomer’s long, wheat-gold hair, and then finger-combed the tangle back out again. Every now and again one of them would shudder and clutch at the other as their heart-rates settled and sweat cooled. Eomer’s touch was bolder. His finger-tips ran over the curve of his sister’s bare hip. When the action brushed over a ticklish spot, Eowyn caught his wrist and dragged it up and away.

“You’re making me shiver.” The complaint was breathy and playful.

“I like making you shiver.” Eomer traced his touch over her lips.

When she licked in response, Eowyn could taste herself.

“I wish…” Eomer began. “I want the rest, Eowyn.” He caressed her cheek. “This is wonderful. Your mouth, your hands… but please Eowyn…” His brow furrowed.

“No.” Her head shook. “We can not risk a baby. I’ve told you, again and again. If you want that, you’ll have to go to someone else.”

“You know I don’t want anyone other woman. I love YOU.” His declaration was fevered and Eomer’s fingers spasmed as if they wanted to seize and hold her tight.

Sighing, Eowyn rolled onto her back. “We have to convince Faramir to come home, love,” she stated. “I’ve gone through it, looked it all up. We need Faramir.”

“It’s not fair.” Eomer sat up, his expression dour. “It’s a small step between a brother and a half-brother.”

“It’s a step enough to be legal, dearheart,” she insisted. “With father gone and Faramir on the throne, Faramir and I can marry… then children won’t matter any more. He’ll give you the Riddermark. You and I both know he will. I’ll spend half the time there and half the time in Minas Tirith. You and Faramir can travel to see each other as well. We’ll all share. It won’t matter whose baby I have. We can say its Faramir’s even if it your’s… and either way our children will inherit one kingdom or the other… if not both.” Eowyn shifted up so she could lean against her brother’s strong back. “I know you love Faramir, and he loves you too. This will work, Eomer. It’s the only way it will work and no one will be hurt. Not you, not me, not Faramir.”

A pout pulled at Eomer’s lips. “And would you have us all share one large bed, Eowyn? Would you lie to one side and urge me to kiss our brother for your entertainment? It wouldn’t surprise me if you asked it… and I would do it… I would do absolutely anything to make you happy.” His shoulders shrugged. “I love you, Eowyn, but sometimes I hate what’s happened between us as much as I can’t live without it.” Dark, piercing eyes turned on her. “There’s been a sinister spark growing in you since Boromir was taken… something mysterious and sharp, something more than a little frightening, something that reminds me you are our father’s daughter. ”

Eowyn frowned. She should have stopped at just that one time, but she had summoned the demon twice more since then to take care of tasks that were beyond her skill and payment had to be made. The first time Eowyn had felt the monster’s teeth sink into her wrist it had terrified her. The second time was something else entirely. She sighed at the memory, closing her eyes. The second time she had called it to her with an eagerness that frightened her in retrospect. If Eomer could see a change in her, then it had to stop. That had been Denethor’s mistake. He’d lost too much of his inner essence to the demon. He had lost all perspective. If she was going to avoid that same trap Eowyn knew she must not use the creature again.

“I’m sorry love,” Eowyn reached out to stoke Eomer’s cheek. “It’s just the trial of setting things in motion. If we can just coax Faramir home one more time and keep him with us.”

“And father? Do you suppose he is just going to fall down dead for no reason except that it will make things more comfortable for us?”

“I will see to Denethor,” Eowyn stated softly.

“Eowyn.”

“I will see to it,” she repeated. “He’s a horrible man, Eomer. You only know half of it. I can’t bear to burden you with it all but… oh Eomer, for what he has done to our country, to people who trusted him… to our mother.” She leaned in and kissed her brother gently. “I worry sometimes that he might… now Boromir is gone… I am sometimes afraid he will bore of those faceless children he’s been using and turn his attention on you or I, my love.”

“Don’t worry yourself over me, Eowyn. I should be safe,” Eomer soothed. “Apparently I look too much like our dead uncle and not enough like my brothers. I should cut my hair, however. The last time we were alone together Denethor forgot himself briefly.” Eomer shuddered at the memory of his father attempting to fuss over him in much the same way Eowyn had been doing just a few moments ago. The remembrance of his father toying with his hair and murmuring about how like a girl’s it was, made him shudder with revulsion. “I threw him against the wall and told him if he ever touched me like that again I would cut his balls off. He passed it off as a jest, all too aware that I am the only son he has left in the Tower right now… but I knew he was furious.” Eomer laughed grimly. “I must admit to a fear though. If Faramir hadn’t run off it would be him rather than servant boys filling Boromir’s place. Denethor speaks more urgently of having Faramir found and hauled home with every passing day.” He sighed. “We can’t let that happen, my love. I do not think if our brother would have the strength to stand up to our father. Faramir is a gentle soul and too much in awe of Denethor. ”

Eowyn nodded in agreement. Faramir could not return to the Tower while Denethor still sat on the throne. It wasn’t safe for their brother to come back, but she ached for his return. Her entire world had been made up of herself, Eomer and Faramir for too long. There was gaping wound in her heart that grew more painful with every day of separation from Faramir. There was only one solution. “We can not continue to live under his rule, Eomer. It will be the ruin of all three of us. I know a way to get rid of father. No one will know it was me behind it. He’s a horrendous man with vile habits. If one of those habits costs him his life… so be it.”

“No!” Eomer caught at her shoulders and forced his sister to look him in the eyes. “I can handle father. I should be the one. I can take care of you. I don’t want you dragging yourself down to his level any longer. It’s ruining you. Please, Eowyn.”

“And would you have Faramir kept apart from us forever? Would you have our brother die alone on the road during this foolish quest to bring back Boromir… who would keep Faramir apart from us as surely as Denethor does?” Eowyn knew she’d hit the mark. She could see her brother wince away from the words. “It’s too late for Boromir. Father ruined him beyond repair before we even met him… but Faramir… oh Eomer. I know you love him as dearly as I do.” Eowyn leaned in to rest her forehead against his. “We need his gentle nature, his calm, his clever mind… and he needs us to be strong and do what must be done.”

“I could do it to protect you and Faramir. I know I should have done it already, but I thought… I will kill Denethor if that’s what needs to be done.”

“And everyone would know it was you for you are too honest to keep the stain of it off your face, my love.” Her smile was weary. “There is a way, Eomer. Neither of us will do it. I simply have to bargain with a force of darkness… not become part of it.” Eowyn stroked the soft fuzz on his upper lip. “When Denethor is gone Faramir will be able to come back to us safely and the three of us will be truly happy again.” She brushed a kiss across Eomer’s lips. Her tone shifted into a warm tease. “And I WILL see you kiss our brother, because deep in your heart I know you want to be with him as much as I do. We will close our circle once more and everything will finally be perfect, my love.” Eowyn licked the corner of his mouth. “I am actually quite looking forward to seeing your’s and Faramir’s lovely bodies tangled together… as much as I am eager to taste him myself.”

“Eowyn, do not talk like that.” Eomer turned his face away, his cheeks tinting rose under the bit of golden down. A sigh made his entire frame heave. “And will you promise me it will end with that?” he pleaded. “Once Denethor is gone and Faramir is home there will be no more tinkering with people’s lives. You’ll trust Faramir and I to handle it all… once things are the way they should be. You’ll go back to the way you were. Promise me, Eowyn. I hate it that you have been forced to dirty yourself.”

“Once you are on the throne in the Golden Hall and Faramir holds the White Tower…” Eowyn whispered out the reassurance, “I’ll leave everything to the two of you. I trust the two of you.”

*

Faramir’s temper threatened to flare up into fury, but he took a deep breath. After over a year of slamming into wall after wall of silence and ignorance, he should have grown accustomed to disappointment but each time was as brutal as the first few. This particular trail of aged wise men, old medicine women, retired soldiers, ranting maniacs, rumour, speculation, and complete nonsense had dwindled down to this. Faramir stood outside a collapsing cottage on the outskirts of Dol Amroth only to be told that the man he had come to see had died a week ago.

The looming possibility that Faramir would have to go back to Minas Tirith and start all over again on another trail was crushing. Faramir wasn’t even certain that he would be allowed into the upper tiers of The White City after his last, disastrous, visit there. If father was away from Minas Tirith it would be easier. Eowyn had told Faramir that she would do everything in her limited power to help with his quest. A message from her might get Faramir back into the Tower so he could ransack the archives yet again.

“Excuse me, sir…” A provocatively dressed girl plucked briefly at Faramir’s sleeve before backing away again. Bells jangled at her ankles as she moved, the symbol of whore in this part of the country.

“No… thank you.” Faramir offered up a weary smile. He readjusted his worn cloak. “I’m not looking for company.”

The girl smiled and shrugged her shoulders. “It ain’t that, sir. I’ve a message from someone for you.” She took a few steps to draw Faramir away from the tumble-down shack. “I’ve a gentleman caller who sent me to tell you something.” Darkly shadowed eyes looked all around them. “The gentleman said to tell you that he’d be willing to have a little chat with you over at The Tipsy Mermaid… providing you promise to keep his information confidential.”

“What gentleman?” Faramir couldn’t bring himself to get too excited. The girl could just be drawing him somewhere out of the way so she could rob him.

Her voice lowered so it was barely audible. “Lord Imrahil, sir. Your mother’s brother, your lordship. He says he’ll talk to you, right quiet like, but not at the manor… and he’ll be denying everything he tells you if you bring his name up to your father.”

Closer now, so he could hear the girl, Faramir realized she was prettier and healthier than a girl in her line of work from this part of the city should be. “Take me to him.” There was no longer any reason for Faramir to linger where he was. Of course, she could be leading him into some kind of trap, but Faramir had been in a fair share of tight squeezes since leaving home. A fight would almost be a relief right now.

That last thought made Faramir frown in annoyance at himself and how far he’d fallen since Boromir had been taken from him. Fighting wasn’t going to help. Hopefully Imrahil would, however. The Lord of Dol Amroth was of an age with Father. Perhaps information that Father had been unwilling to share could be gained from the meeting.

*

Aragorn felt the tug at the edge of his awareness that told him the chant of summoning was being recited, but for the first time since the dawn of his servitude, Aragorn made a king of Gondor wait. By the time Boromir was safely wound in enchanted sleep the call was a blazing ache that was quickly devouring Aragorn from the inside out.

With a vicious twist in the fabric of the world, Aragorn took a step and found himself in the centre of Pelagir’s bustling splendour, on the balcony of one of the tallest building in the ancient holding. Denethor was leaning on the railing, glaring down at the city’s evening lights. It was the work of only a moment for Aragorn to absorb the situation. The city wasn’t the problem, nor was any great matter of state irritating King Denethor. It was the piece of paper clutched in his fist that had raised Denethor’s ire this night.

Aragorn took note that a harshly-used, blond servant boy lay, barely breathing in the king’s bed. Eowyn had been Denethor’s next intended conquest before Boromir’s abduction, but that option had been discarded quickly enough. Denethor’s Rohan born offspring had proven far less compliant than Boromir. Denethor would have been forced to use obvious violence, rather than trickery and coercion if he wanted to have Eowyn in his bed. “I see you are using more diplomacy in handling your two younger children than you employed with the elder ones. Young Eomer is proving far more difficult to manipulate than your first heir ever was.” Since the king’s offspring were to be the topic of tonight’s meeting Aragorn wanted the power of the first words.

“Imrahil met with Faramir,” Ignoring Aragorn’s taunt, Denethor threw the crumpled report at Aragorn. “Kill him.”

Aragorn smiled. He halfway considered departing to carry out the instructions without clarifying the order. Denethor having Faramir killed would certainly put an end to Boromir ever wanting to return to the world of men. Still, it might break Boromir down too far, and it would certainly enrage Denethor.

“Should I kill Prince Faramir or Lord Imrahil, my King… or both of them?” Aragorn teased.

Denethor glared, a truly poisonous frown marred his features. “Don’t you play games with me, spawn of darkness. Kill Lord Imrahil. You know that is who I meant.” Denethor amended the order a heartbeat later. “But find out how much he told Faramir first.”

“As you command, my lord.” Aragorn bowed his head in preparation of departing when King Denethor’s raised hand stopped the vanishing.

“Who told Boromir the secret?” The question sounded old and worn, like something that Denethor had been chewing on for a long time.

Truth was the only response Aragorn’s bindings allowed when confronted with a direct question from one of his masters. “No one told Boromir how to summon me, my lord.” Speaking quickly to forestall more clearly framed questions, Aragorn added, “I would suggest that you find a more secure hiding place for the journal that explains the way of me and describes my previous tasks.”

Denethor’s brows knit together and lowered. “The book is in my secret room,” he said softly.

“The room was discovered, my lord.” Aragorn rushed on, needing to distract the king from that line of questions. “Shall I return to you to be paid for my services as soon as Imrahil tells me what he has confessed to Prince Faramir, or must I wait for another summons, my lord?” Feeding on Boromir was addictive, but Aragorn was in need of a more substantial meal. Denethor’s blood was bitter by comparison, but a tiny portion of the king’s life-force would be surrendered in addition to the meal… that was what Aragorn craved.

“There is another thing.” Arms crossed and Denethor’s chin lifted. He drew himself up to his full, stately height and glowered at his demon servant. “I want him back. Give Boromir back to me.”

The response had to be carefully framed. “He was committed to me as part of a previous bargain by a legal heir of Gondor. You cannot revoke the deal, my king.”

“But he isn’t a Prince anymore.”

“He was when the bargain was struck.” Aragorn shot back, carefully choosing his words. “Boromir was payment for his own abduction. I will not release him. He is mine now.”

“But I need him,” Denethor hissed, his voice overflowing with torment. “Just for a night, just for a few hours. I will give you twice your normal feeding. I will come to Mordor if you will not bring him to me. I will willingly step into your territory. Just name your price.”

Aragorn’s head tipped to one side and he examined Denethor from the inside out. The king’s inner essence was riddled with fractures, stretched thin, brittle and dark. Denethor had already surrendered much of himself with his constant summoning of Aragorn. Aragorn had been better fed by Denethor than any of his previous incarnations had ever been by the kings they served. “You have little left to spare, my lord.”

“Then I will trade you,” Denethor offered. “Take one of the others… take all three of them, just give me back Boromir.” He swallowed. “I will release you. There must be a way. I will check through the book. I recall that there was a way to release you from your service to my house. Would that be payment enough for Boromir’s return?”

“In your youth you could have released me. When you first opened the book you could have chosen that path. You could have released me rather than commanding my service. Any of the kings of Gondor could have severed this vile binding… IF it had been their first command… but after the first order is given it is too late,” Aragorn explained. “We are bound now, my king. I will serve any other wish you might have, but you can not force me to return Boromir. That deal is concluded.”

The absolute hatred in Denethor’s eyes was actually quite delicious, Aragorn thought. “If that is all, I will go and tend to Imrahil then report back to you promptly. I have a lover waiting at home and I greatly desire to return to him.” The taunt was admittedly, rather foolish, but Aragorn did enjoy the way it made the king flinch and glower.

“Fine. Come back to me once you’ve disposed of Imrahil. We aren’t finished yet, demon.” Denethor waved dismissively at Aragorn but his expression betrayed that his mind was working hard at what their next encounter would involve.

*

Boromir was surprised to find himself alone when he awoke. Aragorn had been there every other time that Boromir had opened his eyes, usually stretched out beside him in the bed. It was decadent, Boromir thought. He had slept more over the last little while than he had ever allowed himself before in his entire life. The unbroken rest must have done him even more good than usual last night, because his mind felt clearer than it had in days.

A crimson robe flowed across the foot of the bed like a river of blood on the black sheets. The narrow window let in a shaft of late afternoon light. A tray sat on the table, as usual. Grapes, cheese, rolls and several carafes of liquid sat waiting. Water, wine and some kind of cider most likely filled the elegant bottles.

Pulling on the silken robe, Boromir padded over to the table. “ARAGORN?” Boromir called out as he picked up what smelled like apple cider. It seemed he was always thirsty lately. He took a drink straight out of the wide-topped vessel than sat it back down again. Silence filled the room.

Frowning, Boromir walked over to the wall with the window and began pushing aside the swaths of fabric. There should be a doorway behind the draperies. Although the portal had never seemed to open to the same place twice in a row, Aragorn easily exposed an arch from behind the concealing curtains whenever he pushed them aside. All Boromir could find, however, was plain black stone. He tried every bit of the wall, tearing some of the fabric down in his annoyance, but nothing was revealed except the shaft that lead down to the kitchens. Not able to believe it, Boromir circled the room yet again, yanking down every bit of concealing cover, but it was a fact. Only the window and serving shaft broke the solid rock of the walls. It made no sense. If there was no doorway then how did Aragorn get in and out of the room? The window was too narrow and the shaft would be too small. Boromir frowned at the piles of drapery. There had to be a way. He, himself, had left the room with Aragorn several times, usually to wander into weed-strangled ruins or deserted wilderness.

Not knowing what else to do, Boromir tugged at the call rope that Frodo had showed him when he first arrived. The lifting box was slow to arrive. When it finally filled the hollow, Boromir was surprised by who was inside it. This new servant was similar in size to Frodo, with the same sort of unruly curls, but he wasn’t Frodo. This one’s features were more pointed and he wasn’t as softly pretty.

Bright eyes went to table immediately. “But you’ve not eaten a scrap,” he protested. “It’d be a waste to haul it off.”

“Where is Aragorn?” Boromir asked. “Where is the door? How do I find the stairs?”

The young man blinked in surprise. Looking up at Boromir, he shook his head. “The master, he comes and goes without normally accounting to us, yer lordship. The master, he tells Frodo sometimes… but he’s down at the bottom of the tower with Sam tending to the animals right now so I can’t ask him…Frodo that is, not the master.”

“And how do I get down to the bottom of the tower, little one?” Boromir persisted.

“Well…” The servant squirmed and made a face. “It’s out the kitchen door and down as far as the steps go.”

Boromir kept his tone level with some effort. “And how do I get to the kitchens?”

Lips pursed. “I’m in doubt you’ll fit into the lift, yer lordship.” His thumb hooked toward the shaft. “So I don’t rightly know. You’ll have to ask the master.”

“Child…” Boromir began.

“Pippin, yer lordship. I’m Pippin.”

“Pippin,” Boromir corrected himself. “Perhaps you could scoot down and fetch Frodo up for me. Tell him that I’d like to know where Aragorn has gone… and that I’d like some proper clothes so I can leave this room.” Exploring in just the robe he wore wouldn’t be very comfortable.

The young man’s head started nodding immediately. “I can do that. Now you just tuck in your meal and I’ll see to it.” Pippin climbed back into the box. “The rolls have got cinnamon baked into them today. They’re especially good.” He tugged at the call rope. “And that’s the last of the grapes until the master fetches more… but we’ve got some pears that Sam candied just yester…” His voice became muffled as the lift began to lower.

*

As much as Aragorn wanted to be fed, spending time with Denethor was a torturously high price. Weighing each word before he spoke was annoying. Dancing around Eowyn’s involvement in Boromir’s abduction was fast becoming a bothersome task. The old king had further complicated things by sending Aragorn off in search of his wayward middle son after the task of killing Imrahil was accomplished. At this rate, Aragorn realized, Boromir was going to be awake, completely aware, and annoyed before he could get back to Barad-dur.

Faramir was standing by a stream feeding his horses bits of apple between drinks of water when Aragorn finally managed to pinpoint the prince’s location. It appeared as if Faramir was travelling east, back toward Minas Tirith, or perhaps even Mordor… considering that Imrahil had long ago deduced that Aragorn made his home in that general direction, a realization he had shared with Faramir.

Denethor had asked for the young man’s location, but the king hadn’t put any limitations on Aragorn about interacting with Faramir. After a moment’s consideration, Aragorn decided to manifest rather than just take note of the area and return to Denethor. Neither Denethor nor Eowyn had forbidden Aragorn to have contact with Faramir, and a plan was forming inside Aragorn’s mind that might prove quite interesting.

Aragorn’s appearance startled Faramir into grabbing after the hilt of his sword, but as soon as the prince realized what exactly had materialized beside him, his hand fell away from the weapon. Eyes narrowed and Faramir’s lips thinned into a frown. “You.” That single word held more virulence than any obscenity he could have voiced.

Smiling at the hatred in Faramir’s voice, Aragorn casually petted at the nose of the saddled horse. “This animal was a royal gift, although its owner was in no position to surrender it to you… so perhaps you should return it?”

“I’d like to,” Faramir’s tone was cautious. “If you would just tell me where exactly my brother is, I will bring it to him without delay.”

All black eyes pinned Faramir and Aragorn gave his most predatory smile. “Have you taken this time to think, little boy? I seriously doubt that you are completely aware of all the intrigues involved in my removal of Boromir from Gondor.”

“So Boromir is not within the boundaries of Gondor?” Faramir seized on the scrap of information.

Aragorn couldn’t help but chuckle. “You didn’t listen. You refuse to absorb a word of what was said that night, don’t you, pretty one? Your mind simply can’t accept what it heard so you’re trying to block the entire evening out.” he teased. “Your father came right out and told you that I couldn’t enter this country without an invitation. Your father said a great many things he didn’t mean to share with an audience that night.”

Not willing to travel down that line of thought yet again today as he did almost every night as of late, Faramir snapped, “I have no desire to gossip with you, beast. If you’re here to tell where Boromir is, spit it out. If you’re here to taunt me, begone.” Faramir’s chin was raised in a show of arrogance but his anxiety was easy to see in his eyes.

Gliding closer, Aragorn caught Faramir’s face between his thumb and forefinger. “Even now your father attempts to buy Boromir back at the cost of you, your wicked little sister and poor, besotted Eomer. He wants Boromir returned to his bed so badly that he offered me all three of you in exchange.”

“Monster!” The furious accusation was loud, but shaky, as if Faramir realized the truth of the statement but simply couldn’t accept it. “You’re a filthy liar!” Fists swung wildly without any success. “Father would never…” The denial hung unfinished as Faramir tried to strike out again and again, but the attack was useless. Aragorn contained him easily. Looking sickened, Faramir attempted to retreat from the situation instead.

When Faramir tried to pull free Aragorn caught a handful of thick reddish-blond hair. “You are sweeter than the first honey of spring, my pretty prince. One would think you far too innocent and honourable to have sprung from the loins of Denethor the corrupt. If I didn’t smell the blood of my line in you I would swear that your mother somehow cuckolded the king.” Aragorn brushed his whiskered cheek against Faramir’s, closing his eyes in pleasure at the combined scents of repressed terror, anguish and virtue rising from the young man’s skin. The action caused the prince to tremble and flinch away as much as Aragorn’s grip would allow. “Tell me, Faramir, how badly do you want your brother freed? Would you offer yourself in trade?” Aragorn nuzzled at sun-browned skin.

“Yes.”

“So quickly you offer,” Aragorn teased. “Without knowing what services I might demand of you. Are you so eager to withdraw from this world into mine?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Faramir’s whisper was tainted with staggering disillusionment and almost two years’ worth of misery. “Nothing matters anymore.”

“How delightful of you to offer… but you should know, young one, Boromir doesn’t want his freedom. He has no desire to leave my side. Boromir is my lover,” Aragorn announced in a smoky murmur. “His body melts under my every touch. My arms are his salvation after a lifetime of abuse from your father. Your brother has found his calling and it isn’t as a lord of Gondor… it is with me.”

“It’s a trick. You’ve done something to him,” Faramir accused. “Nothing matters more to Boromir than Gondor.”

“Come see for yourself,” Aragorn invited. His grip turned into a caress that made Faramir shudder and turn his face away. “We are in Mordor, in the tower of Barad-dur. You should visit us, pretty prince. I know what it will do to you… watching your golden idol of a brother draped over my bed… writhing on the sheets and spreading his legs wide in invitation… like the basest bottom-tier whore of Minas Tirith. I know the thought of it burns through you like a branding iron. Do you want to listen to him scream out his pleasure and beg me to mount him as I run my tongue up the inside of his thigh? Come see, Faramir. Come to us. Come.” On that last word, Aragorn vanished.

Faramir practically fell over at the sudden disappearance. He quaked, dropped down into a crouch, wrapped his arms over top of his head and put every scrap of willpower he possessed into containing the wail that wanted to tear out of his chest.

*

True to Aragorn’s expectations, Boromir was in a foul mood by the time he got back to Barad-dur. The room was in ruins, bare walls exposed and the bed overturned. Boromir was huddled in a nest of displaced fabric, tracking the sky’s change through the window. Aragorn’s hobbit servants were all upset. The mess Boromir had made of the table, crockery, and food had especially disturbed the halflings.

There was no chance for Aragorn to manifest in the room when Boromir wasn’t looking since the prince had his back to a wall and his attention was knife sharp. Aragorn had to content himself with appearing in clear view. Realizing that he couldn’t hide the magic, Aragorn made a spectacle of it instead. Solidifying from smoke to a solid form in several long breaths, he smiled down at Boromir.

“What are you?” Boromir’s question was softly spoken.

“I’ve told you that already. If you chose not to listen or believe…” Aragorn shrugged fluidly. The movement made his long cloak ripple and swirl about his leather boots.

“I’ve been counting… trying to count, trying to puzzle it out,” Boromir corrected. His bottom lip was torn and swollen from being chewed. “I can’t seem to figure out how long I’ve been here.” Reaching up he pulled at his hair, bringing the length of it forward. “This hasn’t seemed to grow. I don’t recall shaving, but I haven’t grown a beard.” His frown deepened. “I was shaving every other day to keep my cheeks smooth.” A hand extended. “My nails haven’t gotten any longer either.” Curious eyes lifted. “You never change either, not a bit.”

A smile pulled at the corner of Aragorn’s mouth. Frodo, Merry and Pippin had never complained aloud about having to tend Boromir in his sleep, or about heaving his heavy body this way or that, but the halflings’ expressions had betrayed how difficult the task was.

“But we’ve gone out dozens of times, maybe more,” Boromir argued. “We’ve had… we’ve… made love more times than I can count.” His cheeks darkened vividly. “I must have been here at least a month, maybe longer.” He pulled the blanket around his shoulders tighter. “When I woke up alone and tried to leave I realized what you’ve been doing. I haven’t felt like a prisoner, but that’s what I am, isn’t it? I’m nothing more than a house-pet to you, am I? I am a toy that waits here for your amusement.”

“You couldn’t be more wrong.” Aragorn padded over to kneel before Boromir. “I love you. You stimulate me, my golden one. You rouse me like nothing else has done in years upon years.”

“I can’t live like this!” Shaking away the gathered fabric, Boromir surged forward to shove at Aragorn. “I’ve obligations.”

“No, you don’t.” The push hadn’t even budged Aragorn in place.

“I’m a prince of Gondor. My land, my people… my brother…” he protested. “My people need me. Faramir needs me. I need him.”

It would be easy to be cruel, Aragorn realized, and perhaps even amusing as well. A part of him didn’t want to hurt Boromir unnecessarily, but the words had to be said. “Your father denied you, my love. Before all the nobles and staff of the White Tower he disowned you. You are not a prince. You have no land, no people. Your brother will rule after your father dies. You can take comfort in knowing that Faramir will be a better king than Denethor ever was… better than you would have been.”

Boromir’s head was shaking. Aragorn placed a hand on either cheek to stop the movement. “Your place is here, dearest one, at my side…” A kiss was stolen. “In my bed.” Aragorn had to contain a laugh at how similar Boromir was to his brother. Faramir had also worn that same expression of shocked disbelief when he struck out at Aragorn just a short time ago.

“I AM NOT YOUR WHORE!” Boromir roared, one fist impacting against Aragorn’s mouth.

“No, you are my lover.” Aragorn, knocked back onto his behind, reached up to daub at where his teeth had torn open his lip. “You were Denethor’s whore. Would you rather go back to that position? He would be more than happy to have you.” A thin trickle of blood ran across Aragorn’s fingers and began to inch down his wrist.

Expecting another outburst, Aragorn was pleasantly surprised to realize that Boromir was speechless. Glowing green eyes were locked on the blood smearing Aragorn’s skin. Boromir’s mouth opened and closed quickly. He swallowed convulsively.

“You really are an amazing creation, my love. You swing a sword like you’re dancing. You ride, fight, run, and make love with every fibre of your being… but you think with your heart and your gut, not your mind. Which can be an excellent trait in a captain but it is a very bad thing in a king. That’s always been the way of it with you. It’s where your strength lays, Boromir. Trust what your body says. Listen when it tells you what it wants.” Extending his hand so the trail of crimson was clearly displayed, Aragorn smiled. “Tell me, my love, what do you want most in the world right at this moment?”

Boromir licked his lips. “I’m thirsty,” he whispered. “I want… I want some wine.” The declaration lacked intensity.

“It’s not wine you want. It’s not salted broth either,” Aragorn recited quietly. “It’s hasn’t been spiced cider or red meat that you’ve been craving since our second kiss, my love. You may not have realized it, but you’ve been wanting something quite particular… something you’ve only tasted in my kisses until now.” His arm tipped and the drip-trail grew longer and thinner.

Aragorn’s forearm was seized and Boromir dragged him closer. With an expression of sickened bewilderment marking his features, Boromir raised the limb and dared a cautious lick across the pads of Aragorn’s damp fingers. A groan so deep that sounded as if it had ripped up from his toes, welled out of Boromir. A shudder wracked him briefly then Boromir set to cleaning every speck of the drying blood off of Aragorn’s fingers, palm and arm.

Within a breath of the very last lick, Boromir threw himself backward. He stared at Aragorn with an expression of horror and covered his mouth to contain the instinctive desire to vomit because of what he had just done.

“No, no, no,” Aragorn murmured soothingly. “It’s all right. It’s nothing to fret over. A few small tastes aren’t going to ruin you, my love. I’ll stop you well before you drink enough to make you like me.” Aragorn’s cloak was shrugged off and he reached down to pull his shirt up and off in one graceful movement. “A little bit more won’t hurt you.” Reaching up, Aragorn dragged a fingernail across his own skin, just above his left nipple. “Come, my love. It’s what you need, what you want. It will quiet the screaming inside your mind. I promise.” A thin line of blood beaded up.

One drop, heavier than the rest began to run downward. Boromir’s gaze was locked on the dribble of crimson. His breath caught and his body strained as if wanting to dive forward but held back by invisible chains.

“Taste me, beloved. Please.” All it took was for Aragorn to reach out and stroke gently across Boromir’s jaw. The action broke Boromir from his state of indecision. He launched himself forward and began to eagerly lap at the small wound.

The cut closed up quickly enough but Boromir was too enflamed by then to break off his oral attack on Aragorn. His enthusiastic attentions traced up and then downward again, mapping out every bit of Aragorn’s skin. If the material of Aragorn’s pants were any less solid it would have torn under Boromir’s frantic attentions.

*

Aragorn’s appearance in the kitchen made Pippin, the youngest of his halfling servants, yelp and fall backward off his chair.

“Boromir is asleep. You’ll need nails, needles, thread, and fresh sheets to clean up the mess. I need his shoulder bandaged,” Aragorn snapped out orders. “If he wakes up before I return… don’t leave any liquids but wine in his room… and make certain it’s laced with something that will put him back to sleep.” The last instruction was aimed at Frodo.

There were eager nods all about the kitchen. The hobbits knew Aragorn would never eat them, but they also knew he wasn’t above hurting them in other ways if they didn’t do their very best to keep him happy. Aragorn, not the least bit pacified, scowled and turned away from his servants. Muttering curses vicious enough to turn the air to steam, he shifted, giving into the call that was blistering inside the back of his skull.

Expecting Denethor’s grim visage, Aragorn was surprised to find himself appearing in a lady’s bedroom. Eowyn stood near a white-painted desk, flipping impatiently through a small stack of letters. “What do you want now?” Aragorn’s tone was harsh and demanding. He was furious at being dragged away from Boromir again so soon. Eowyn might know the chant and be willing to pay for his services, but she wasn’t his primary master and never would be. Aragorn could afford to be rude to her.

The girl was doing her best not to look intimidated by Aragorn’s angry presence, and failing. She got to the point immediately. “I need to get a message to Faramir and none of Eomer’s men can find him. I want you to locate him and bring him here… to Minas Tirith.” She picked up a note off her desk and held it out.

Aragorn would have turned on the damned girl and ripped her heart out at that moment if his binding would have allowed it. Instead he had to talk his way out of the errand. “Do you honestly thing that Prince Faramir is that stupid, little girl? Don’t you know that as soon as you reveal that you have command over me he will realize that it was you who told me to take Boromir away?”

Eowyn frowned, her fingers fidgeting with the letter that requested Faramir’s immediate return. “Fine, then use some local to deliver the note… but you must guarantee me that it will be put into Faramir’s hands.”

“It will be.” Aragorn paced over to take the paper, but Eowyn held it away.

“There is another thing.” She looked pale.

Aragorn huffed out an impatient breath. He could taste her thoughts in the air. “I told you already, girl. I can NOT kill the king for you. My bindings won’t allow it.”

“I’ve gone through the book,” Eowyn explained. “You can’t kill him directly, but you can do what I need you to.” She stiffened her resolve and looked straight into Aragorn’s black eyes. “Once Faramir is on his way home I want you to find an absolutely beautiful blond boy… one who’s nasty and vicious enough to do the job, but who doesn’t look it. Arm him with a weapon that the guards will miss and put him somewhere that Denethor is certain to notice him. Offer to pay the boy whatever he wants to kill Denethor.”

Aragorn had to give Eowyn credit for a well thought out plan. Denethor was using up boys in a rather steady stream as of late. Most of them were dead within days of the king taking an interest in them. It would be no surprise to the court if one of the brats turned on his rapist and the king was killed. That plan clashed with Aragorn’s intentions however. For his purposes Faramir needed to come to Barad-dur and Aragorn needed a little time to entangle the young man. Nor was Aragorn eager to invest the time it would take to locate just the right boy and place him in Denethor’s path.

“Poison would be faster,” Aragorn observed.

“Poison would raise questions. Do as I tell you, demon, and no more arguing.” Eowyn extended her arm to pay him.

Aragorn could hear her chanting inside her mind that this would be ‘the last time’. She trembled in mixed anticipation and dread of his bite.

Still warm from feeding on Boromir’s flesh and blood, Aragorn could exert enough control over his hunger to shake his head at the offering. “No. I want to drink from here this time.” Gliding over, Aragorn tickled a fingertip down the curve of her throat.

“Denethor always feeds you from his wrist,” Eowyn argued.

“By my choice,” he countered. “Argue with me on this and I’ll demand to taste the inside of your thigh instead.” Aragorn was allowed to make very few demands on the royal house, but this was one of them.

“Foul beast,” Eowyn muttered, but her head tilted obligingly to one side. As he leaned in, Eowyn’s nose wrinkled at the clear scents of sex and blood that clung to him.

“Denethor offered me you and Eomer for the return of his favourite,” Aragorn whispered against perfumed skin. “Perhaps I should accept. The pair of you could birth and raise children enough for me to feed on… so I would never have to hunt the breadth of Dunland and Minhiriath for my son’s descendants when I’m thirsty.”

Eowyn shuddered. Aragorn could tell she was tempted to knock him away and banish him for her presence without letting him drink, but she managed to control the urge. If Aragorn was sent away without payment he wouldn’t be bound to perform the tasks she had requested.

His tongue flicked out. “Denethor might even be so grateful to me for Boromir’s return that he would fill your belly with the first child himself if I asked nicely.”

“BE SILENT!” Eowyn snapped, holding herself still by only the thinnest thread of willpower. Coming, as it did, right before the taking of blood and essence, Aragorn was forced to comply with the demand.

*

The heaviness of sleep was slow to surrender Boromir. He was distantly aware of a soft pillow against his cheek and the soothing caress of fingers long before he felt the desire to open his eyes. Everything was clouded by heat, tickling breath and suction. Eager lips scorched his nipples then trailed downward.

“Keep your eyes closed.” Aragorn’s command sizzled across Boromir’s nerves, plucking excitement from them. “Lay still and let me devour you, my love.” Then Aragorn’s mouth engulfed him and Boromir couldn’t do anything but moan and arch up into the delicious contact.

Aragorn’s attentions were intense, but slow enough that satisfaction was held just out of Boromir’s grasp. Each time Boromir was certain that he was about to climax the pressure would ease enough that he found himself on another higher plateau rather than the peak. Boromir’s thoughts were a splintered wreck and his body burned.

“PLEASE!” It couldn’t have been the first thing that Boromir had screamed. Considering how raw his throat felt, he’d likely been shouting for a fair while. “MERCY! Please, oh please.”

A slow, deliberate lick and a smoky chuckle from Aragorn made Boromir whimper and thrash, lifting to return to the heat of his lover’s mouth.

“Not yet, my love.” Aragorn caught hold of Boromir’s legs and lifted, gently pressing them up toward Boromir’s chest. His face dropped once more causing a shriek as he drew Boromir’s balls into his mouth.

Torn between catching at his own legs to hold himself open to the erotic torment and throwing his arms out for balance, Boromir wailed out his frustration.

Strong hands caught at Boromir’s behind, supporting him even as thumbs separated the cheeks to expose him. Aragorn’s beard rasped against sensitive skin. Boromir could feel every one of Aragorn’s fingers on his bottom and yet a trail of wet fire traced into the crevice.

Realization thundered into Boromir’s mind at the same time that Aragorn’s tongue pierced into his body. Boromir shocked into orgasm. He twisted and clawed at the sheets, but Aragorn held him in position. Before Boromir could catch his breath, it began again, even more invasively. Boromir felt wonderfully boneless under the attentions, as if he were floating in warm water.

This second build up was even slower than the first. Boromir melted into the feelings that Aragorn was provoking. At some point Aragorn’s tongue must have been exchanged for fingers since the spill was being lapped up like cream off his belly, but Boromir couldn’t say when it had changed.

“In all my long lives…” Aragorn whispered, edging higher. “Nothing has ever felt better than this.”

Boromir jolted, just realizing that he’d been skewered by something thicker and longer than fingers. A slow rhythm of drags out and then powerful thrusts underscored the words tickling his ears.

“Your body under mine,” Aragorn murmured, “…is sweeter than any of my wedding nights.” His body stroked into Boromir’s. “Better than the first drink from a new king.” Teeth scraped flesh. “You know what I am and yet you still want me. So damaged, yet so beautiful. So sweet on my tongue.” Aragorn’s breath scalded. “So very human.”

The praise heated Boromir as much as what Aragorn was doing to his body.

“I love you, Boromir. I love you.” Strokes interspersed the words. “Love you.” Aragorn’s fingers pulled gently at Boromir’s returning erection. “Say you love me. Promise me you’ll stay with me forever. There’s nothing but you and I. No one else matters.”

Boromir couldn’t understand how Aragorn could manage entire sentences. His own grasp of language had been reduced to moans, curses and begging.

“Tell me you love me!” Aragorn’s demand was underscored by his body stilling while his shaft was still deep inside Boromir. “Say it. Say you love me.”

Boromir quaked. His body was still thrumming with pleasure but those words in that tone of voice were too much like something Denethor would demand. It sent a tremor of fear creeping up his spine.

Realizing his mistake, Aragorn eased into movement once again, whispering out his pleas but not withholding sensation to get a response. “I love you. There’s no one who matters but you and I, Boromir. No one has ever stirred your soul like I do. Tell me, my love. Please. Say it.”

“ARAGORN!” Boromir shivered violently.

“PLEASE BOROMIR!”

Boromir’s nails dug into his lover’s arms. Even trapped by the position Aragorn had twisted him into, Boromir tried to lift into each thrust. His head was thrown back and a wordless groan keened out of him.

Growling, Aragorn gave up on hearing the words this time and threw himself into their coupling. Shoving hard enough to thump Boromir into the headboard, Aragorn ploughed into his lover’s body. Teeth bared and as soon as Aragorn felt the beginnings of Boromir’s orgasm he broke skin.

A blur of thrashing satisfaction, wrenching groans, and shaking ended with Aragorn easing off to one side of Boromir’s limp form. He licked at the small wound just below Boromir’s ear. Aragorn had only taken a tiny drink, just enough to kick his system past the breaking point.

Boromir’s chest heaved. He shuddered and rolled so he could burrow tight into Aragorn. Sighing, Aragorn reached with his fingernail. He pierced the skin at the base of his own throat where his lover’s lips were pressed. Just a few drops of blood welled up, which would be enough to push Boromir the rest of the way into sensual dreams. Aragorn would give his lover a short rest, and then wake Boromir by making love to him again. Aragorn needed Boromir completely lost in a sexual haze by the time Faramir arrived.

*

Eowyn paced the tower restlessly. Long days had passed since she had sent the demon away with the letter for Faramir and instructions on how to destroy Denethor. That damned creature was the source of more annoyance than mere delays, as well. Aragorn’s choice of whereabouts on her body to feed had blown Eowyn’s secret wide open. She hadn’t been quite ready to share all the details of how she controlled the demon with her brother, but he had questioned the marks at her throat. An explanation had been required of the wounds, and that tale had led to the rest of the story coming out. Upon hearing what had been occurring Eomer had been furious. He had lectured her for hours. Not only had he been angry that Eowyn had risked herself by dealing with the beast, but Eomer’s fury at his sister keeping such a dangerous secret to herself had been frightening. He had insisted that she never summon Aragorn, ever again.

Time was healing those wounds but they were still clear enough that she had to wear high collars. Time, however, was not bringing Eowyn what she had paid for. No word had come to suggest that Faramir was on his way home or that Denethor had encountered any peril.

The king was due home from Pelagir any day now, so Eomer was lingering in Minas Tirith. Eowyn’s brother felt the need to both take council with the king and to guard Eowyn while Denethor was about.

“Your ladyship…” The page that appeared at Eowyn’s side was sweaty and winded. He had obviously been running about in search of the princess. “Your ladyship,” the child repeated while he caught his breath. “The king’s ministers are gathering in the council room. Prince Eomer is there. He is calling for you. It’s urgent. It’s about the king, my lady. Something horrible has happened.”

Eowyn kept an expression of glee off her face with a great deal of effort. She had been half afraid of, and half anticipating, the opportunity to disregard Eomer’s command and call the demon to her once more so she could demand an explanation of the delay. Now it seemed she wouldn’t have to disobey her brother’s orders. Denethor was dead, that had to be what this was about.

Catching her long skirts up, Eowyn ran down staircases and through long corridors. When she arrived at the doorway to Denethor’s council chamber her cheeks were red and she was breathing shallowly.

The room was full but the men inside were all strangely arranged. Some were gathered around the table. Some were shouting and pushing into each other’s faces. Small clusters had formed all through the gathering.

Eomer was standing near the king’s empty chair, frowning down at a paper that lay on the table before him. Soldiers were all about the room. Two of them stood at ready right behind the prince. The cut of their uniforms indicated that they were riders and the horsetails on their shoulders declared them part of Eomer’s personal company.

Other groups were also evident in the clutter of uniforms and court-dress. A fair sized group of old-guard nobles and scholars were gathered at the right side of the room. Some of the younger nobles were lingering between that lot and Eomer’s clutch of supporters. Most uncomfortable was the rather impressive collection of grim-faced officers who had grouped themselves off to the left. A few men stood alone in the fragmenting crowd, while others drifted between the cliques.

Eowyn found it simple to assign each of the largest groups to a prince. The establishment wanted everything done to order. Faramir was the legal heir. If they didn’t support him then their own places could be called into question. The younger, more flexible men were acknowledging that Eomer was the only royal son who had been available to them for the last two years. Most bothersome was the suggestion that the army of Gondor stood apart and that they might want Boromir back despite Denethor’s revoking of his eldest’s rights.

That was the only real flaw in Eowyn’s plans, that she hadn’t allowed enough time for the whole of Gondor to become comfortable with the new line of inheritance. Boromir’s fame had been twenty-one years in the making. Until two years ago very few people had given much thought to either Faramir or Eomer. The thought of putting an eighteen-year-old in charge of the most powerful empire in Middle-Earth would make more than a few people uncomfortable. Faramir’s absence from Minas Tirith hadn’t helped affairs either.

Looking about the room, Eowyn had become distracted. She felt it like a prickle under her skin when Eomer’s hawk-sharp eyes pinned her. Realizing who stood at the door, a hush spread slowly through the crowd.

When Eomer finally spoke, it was in a room gone silent. “Eowyn.”

Eomer’s expression had never been so difficult for Eowyn to read. She fought to copy it.

“There was an incident during father’s trip home from Pelagir.”

Eowyn’s pulse raced in excitement, but she dug her fingernails into her palms to keep control.

“The king, our father, is dead.”

Every eye in the place was on the exchange between the two youngest of Denethor’s children. The fate of the kingdom, and possible civil war, would be influenced by the next few sentences.

It could be done, Eowyn realized. She had control of Denethor’s demon. Faramir was completely out of touch and hadn’t contacted anyone here in months. Boromir was legally disowned. If Eowyn were to drop down into a curtsy and say just the right words there would be men that would fight to put Eomer on the throne. The conflict would ripple out, however, especially considering the unsteady loyalty of Gondor’s armed forces. The government would turn in on itself and tear everything apart, the Riddermark included.

Eowyn nodded gracefully and pitched her voice just right. “We must find…” It was both empowering and vaguely comical, the way everyone’s breath caught as they waited on words of teenaged girl. “Faramir.”

All the attention shifted back to Eomer. “Of course,” he agreed. “Our father made himself quite plain. Faramir must be brought home and crowned with all possible speed.”

Eomer and his sister had made their intentions clear. Eomer was not going to contest with his half-brother for the throne, even though only two months separated their birthdates. That united two factions of the council. There still could be trouble, especially from the outer limits of the empire, but Denethor’s ministers and nobles seemed calm at this moment in time.

There no longer could be any restraint in the search for Faramir. Eomer’s voice thundered out orders. “Every messenger must go out, soldiers as well. Prince Faramir must be located and brought home to Minas Tirith. All the nobles must report here as well to swear loyalty to the new king after the coronation.”

Eowyn padded across the floor. The men parted before her. Once at his side, Eowyn settled one hand on Eomer’s shoulder. She wanted to offer to call the demon and have it fetch Faramir, but she knew what her brother’s response would be. Perhaps later, once they were able to retreat somewhere private Eowyn might be able to persuade him to let her use the creature just one more time, but for now she had to play the part of the silent, submissive sister.

*

Aragorn had felt it, the exact moment that Denethor’s victim had turned on the king, broken apart the necklace he wore, and used the sharp edge to slash Denethor’s throat open. Aragorn heard the strangled garble of sound as Denethor had attempted to summon the guards standing in the hallway of the inn or his demon servant. Aragorn would have liked to actually see the boy squirming away from the blood-soaked bed and scrambling out a window, but there was no invitation. Denethor’s dying wheezes weren’t permission enough to allow Aragorn to enter Gondor.

With the last faltering beat of Denethor’s heart, Aragorn’s perceptions were wrenched sideways. Rather than a vague impression of a cooling corpse, Aragorn was gifted with the sensation of torturous travel, overwhelming exhaustion and a dull aching hunger as the legacy passed to Faramir. That brief taste of Faramir’s essence was enough to tell Aragorn that the boy-who-would-be-king was close at hand. Aragorn had maybe one more day before Faramir would be pounding on the gates of Barad-dur.

“What is it, Aragorn?” Boromir stroked a hand down his lover’s chest, tracing muscles. “You shivered. Are you cold?” He pushed up slightly so he could look into Aragorn’s eyes. “Is something wrong?”

The show of concern brought a smile to Aragorn’s face. “Just a wisp on the wind, my love. It’s nothing you need to fret over.” Boromir’s wrist was caught and Aragorn dragged it up so he could suck at those tormenting fingers.

The intense suction made Boromir groan. His body shifted, arching against Aragorn’s and revealing he was hard yet again. Smiling around the fingers in his mouth, Aragorn surged into action. They rolled on the already ruined bedding until Aragorn was perched atop his lover. “You taste like raspberries…” he remarked on the bit of pastry Boromir had been eating a few hours ago. “And here…” Aragorn’s mouth moved, lapping up the other’s forearm. “Treacle… and a hint of salt too.” With over-elaborate care he pushed Boromir’s arm up so it was pressed to the bed above tousled golden-brown hair. “Will you lay still for me, my precious? Will you let me taste every inch of you?”

Aragorn traced a finger along the limb. He would have liked to bind Boromir to bedposts for the sheer aesthetic pleasure of it. The idea of having his lover completely aware under the long hours of the tormenting seduction they normally indulged in was intoxicating. It would be a sweet change from the half-drunken pliability Boromir was usually wrapped in when they made love for entire days at a time. Aragorn wanted to see midnight-black fabric twisted around strong, struggling wrists, but it couldn’t be. Such a thing would invoke too many memories of Denethor’s attentions for Boromir.

Perhaps Faramir would be more adventurous, or it could be that Boromir would allow his brother to do things to his exquisitely sensitive body that he could not accept from Aragorn. “Let me worship you, my love,” Aragorn whispered against yielding flesh. “Let me…” Another arm was carefully eased upward. The pose beautifully displayed the lines of Boromir’s body, showing off a form that had softened slightly after going two years without swinging a sword.

“Mmm…” Boromir surrendered sweetly, exhaling his excitement as Aragorn’s lips skimmed over him. “Only if I can do the same to you. Ahh! Aragorn!” His arms started to move in response to what was being done to him, only to drop back down when he heard a murmur of disappointment from his lover.

“Trust me, my love. Let me make you feel good.” Aragorn murmured into Boromir’s ear. “You do trust me, don’t you?”

“Yes. Yes, I do.” Boromir moaned and his frame strained upward to gain more contact with the man crawling above him. When the wet tip of Aragorn’s erection brushed his hip, Boromir’s leg automatically lifted, curling up and around the other, offering himself.

“Soon. Not yet.” Aragorn nibbled and licked at the underside of Boromir’s chin.

“Not soon enough. It’s never enough.” The complaint whimpered out, barely loud enough to be heard. “It’s maddening… but I can’t… I just can’t get enough of you… even though we do this all day… every day. I don’t understand.” Boromir struggled to increase the contact between them. His arms lifted and wrapped around Aragorn’s neck, the request for stillness forgotten. “When I’m asleep I dream of making love with you. I never taste anything I’m eating because I can’t stop fantasizing about you. If you move outside my reach for even a minute the cravings I feel to press against you again are painful. What have you done to me, Aragorn?”

“It’s just love, my golden one. Just love. I love you. You love me.” Aragorn prompted. “You do love me, don’t you, Boromir?” At the same time he asked the question, Aragorn ground his body into the one underneath him.

“I don’t know. I suppose. Yes. I must. I do.” The declarations were fractured apart by gasps for air.

Purring with delight, Aragorn readjusted himself so he could spare a hand to wrap around Boromir’s shaft. “Say it. Say it, my love, and I’ll push into you so far you’ll taste me in the back of your throat.”

“I do. I love you. Oh my… please, Aragorn. I need you. Do it.” Heels dug into the base of Aragorn’s spine and Boromir groaned.

“That’s what I needed. That’s what I wanted,” Aragorn praised. “My own, my Boromir.” It wasn’t anything like the binding of servant to king, or of ancestor to the next incarnation, but it was enough. The vow tingled through Aragorn’s nerve endings promising much, mostly promising that Faramir wouldn’t be able to simply gather up Aragorn’s prize and ride off with him without a fight. Inflamed, Aragorn fell to the happy task of wringing every bit of passion he could out of his lover.

*

Massive black gates protected the path into Mordor. It was a sign of the demon’s contempt for the threat of humanity that those gates stood open. Faramir had been forced to dismount, however. Neither the horse he rode on, nor Boromir’s tethered stallion had wanted to pass between the two enormous black doors. He’d had to whisper, coax and tug at the reins in order to make the animals enter. The bothersome situation was compounded by having two horses.

Faramir didn’t really need the second horse. Everything he carried with him could be affixed to the mare that Eomer had given him. Leaving Boromir’s horse behind would, however, be an admission of despair. It would be as much as saying that he would never find his brother and that he was just going through the motions.

The trouble hadn’t ended once Faramir had entered Mordor. Every step between the gates and the black tower had to be earned. The land was treacherous, the animals nervous, and he himself was drained, hungrier than he had ever been in his life and so thirsty he couldn’t gather up enough saliva to spit out the dust in his mouth. He had pushed too far, too fast, while avoiding contact with anyone since his talk with the demon for fear of being recognized and hauled home. Too many people in the eastern parts of Gondor would have known Faramir on sight, so he refrained from visiting either markets or taverns.

When Faramir finally arrived at the base of Barad-dur he felt no vindication. Walking twice around the gigantic structure, all Faramir could manage was weary, bitter anger and staggering disappointment. There was no entrance within reach of a mortal man.

“Bastard!” Faramir tried to look upward, but it only made him dizzy. The sides were completely flat for at least fifty or sixty feet before it appeared there was some kind of stepping effect in the structure of the tower. Sagging against the strangely smooth stone of the towering monument, Faramir slammed the flat of his hand to the rock. “GIVE ME BACK MY BROTHER, YOU BASTARD!” He meant to roar the demand, but it came out as more of a croak. “BOROMIR!” Resting his forehead against the structure, Faramir screamed straight into the rock. “BOROMIR!” Nails attempted to find purchase and failed. “You promised,” he complained in a rasping whisper. “You promised you’d always come back to me. Please.” His voice rose again. “Either let me in or I swear… I’ll die here so my shade can haunt you for all eternity, demon!” Still, there was only silence.

“BOROMIR!” Hands balled into fists and pounded until skin split under the abuse. A wave of weakness washed through Faramir. It felt as if every drop of blood in his veins was being drained out through his hands. The smear of red from his fists puddled out like a small pond before forming into a pattern. The blood then blazed alight as if it had somehow caught fire. The lines thinned, spreading out from the original marks, snaking across the surface of blank stone. Within a minute the shape of an elaborately decorated door formed in cracks of blood red. With a loud grinding screech, the rock began to shift. Doors of foot-deep black stone opened to reveal a very small, young man dressed in a grey-toned Gondorian page-boy’s uniform.

“Your majesty.” A perfect court bow was executed. “Welcome to Barad-dur.”

Faramir blinked, not quite believing his eyes. His head was spinning and he felt as if he were about to fall over.

“If you will come inside, your majesty, we’ll tend to your animals. Both yourself and the beasts appear near done in,” the small man offered in a faintly rustic accent.

“Is Boromir really here, or is this all a trick?” Faramir looked past the young man and saw a scene better suited to a small village. There were chickens running about between the legs of goats and amid patches of garden. The fifty-foot high walls had disguised the fact that the actual tower was built inside a massive circular courtyard. Between those tall outer walls and the citadel was a deep patch of land illuminated by a thin band of sunlight. “I need him,” he declared faintly. “I need him so much I… please. Tell me true. Is he here?”

“Of course Lord Boromir is here, your majesty,” the servant confirmed in a pacifying tone of voice. “If you will come inside… and allow us to tend to you and your horses…” the suggestion trailed off unfinished.

“Take me to him. I want nothing else. Just take me to my brother. Please.” Faramir’s vision blurred and he lowered his gaze to the ground to help his balance. Only then did he realize that a steady drip of blood was still escaping his hands and pooling at his feet. That puddle of red darkened to black and his lashes fluttered. When next Faramir was able to focus, the young man was kneeling above him and a too-warm hand settled on Faramir’s brow.

“Lordy. Opening the door bled you white. Lay still, your majesty. Not to fret. We’ll fix you up right and proper. The master wants you taken care of.” The sweet voice rose to a shout. “Sam! Lend a hand. This one’s just as heavy as his brother.”

A response was on the tip of Faramir’s tongue but he lost it as shadows closed around him.

*

“It would just be a moment’s work,” Eowyn coaxed her brother. Her body leaned against his chest and she traced his jawline with one finger. “I should show you how to call the creature anyway, Eomer. If you don’t want me to bargain with him… you could do it.”

“No.” Eomer pushed his sister’s caress away. “Every time you use that demon, it damages you… and yet you still wish to do it. I can’t help but wonder if there is some foul enchantment that comes with wielding it… one that draws you into calling it again and again… for lesser reasons each time. I will not fall into that trap.” He took hold of Eowyn’s shoulders so he could look straight into her eyes. “We could end it here. You could end it. Faramir knows nothing of the creature’s binding to the rulers of Gondor. If you never tell him, he will not pass it down to his heir when the time comes. We should burn the book you told me about. That would put an end to this curse on our line.”

Her expression was exasperated. “You would not throw away a sword or a bow simply because it was too effective at destroying your enemies,” she argued. “It is one thing to choose not to use the creature… but to discard it entirely would be foolishness. The kings of Gondor have held this demon in their service for generations and only Denethor has abused his power.”

“And what are the kings of Gondor to us, little sister, but our oppressors?” Eomer’s tone grew dark. “WE are the people of the Riddermark.” He sighed. “You tell me one of our children, a son made of you and I, might one day sit on the throne of Gondor rather than a child of Faramir’s. Would your pet demon obey a son of ours… or would it turn on him… declare him to be not of king Faramir’s siring, and ruin everything?

Eowyn faltered. “But the child would still be royal.”

“You said direct heirs,” he reminded her. “If Faramir is crowned and has a son… does your power over the demon vanish? Would my sons be able to control this plague since I am no longer in the line of succession? Don’t you see, Eowyn? The complications of dealing with a thing of magic like this… it isn’t worth it. One miss-step could be the ruin of us. The kings of Gondor were nothing more than lucky that something hasn’t gone wrong already. It needs to end here.”

“You won’t even let me use it to find Faramir?” Eowyn complained. “We need him here… now. The longer it is before he is crowned the more dissent he will have to deal with when it finally happens. It could be months before he decides to return to the Minas Tirith. The demon would likely find him hours and return him to us within a day.”

“Then it will be months before he is crowned… and I will hold his throne until he arrives,” Eomer stated calmly.

Eowyn pulled away and walked across the room. Her arms crossed over her chest and she glared at her brother. “And will you wait even longer without complaint to take me to bed like a proper woman? For 'that' can not happen until Faramir marries me.”

“I have waited for you my entire life, Eowyn. A few more months will not kill me, merely frustrate me… and I am well accustomed to that state of affairs.” He caught her eyes and shot an encouraging smile her way. “It shouldn’t be so very long. Faramir might have been rather single-minded in his pursuit of Boromir up until now… but he will not ignore word of our father’s death.” Crossing after her, Eomer gathered his sister into his arms. A hand stroking her hair attempted to ease the stiff posture she was frozen into. “Let it go, Eowyn. Please.”

“Fine. We’ll let the soldiers and messengers find him.” She leaned into the hug. “But I won’t destroy the book.”

“Only if you swear to hide it from Faramir. I won’t have him infected by this creature. I won’t allow it to ruin our brother the way it destroyed Denethor. I also don’t think he should ever discover that you have control over it. Our brother is a clever man. He will realize that you had a hand in Boromir’s loss… and as much as he loves us… Faramir could never forgive you for that, Eowyn.”

She nodded against his chest. “I’ll ask for the Denethor’s private library. I’ll ask for it to be given to me as my own special retreat. It would be best if Faramir never saw any of what is in the secret room.”

Relieved, Eomer kissed the top of her head. “I suppose that will work,” he allowed.

*

Faramir drifted in and out of fevered dreams for a fair long while. He had vague impressions of cups being held to his lips several time, and perhaps someone feeding him a pleasant, but rather bland, mush. The voices had been cheerful and the hands that had tended him were gentle. Strangely, when Faramir finally sat up, clear-headed at last, he discovered that he was alone in a long narrow room.

Plain black stone made up three of the walls. The fourth was strangely smooth, almost like glass but completely opaque. The room was pleasantly warm, which was a good thing considering all Faramir could find to wrap around his bare form was the sheet off the bed. There was nothing else in the room except a stand with a pitcher, bowl, and chamber-pot on it.

Draping the top sheet over his body, Faramir climbed unsteadily to his feet. One hand stretched out, seeking support. His palm splayed over the slick fourth wall and Faramir was astonished to see light spread out from the point of contact. The blot of transparency expanded like a ripple in a pond. Within a breath the entire wall was perfectly clear. The length and breadth of an elaborately decorated bedroom was revealed to Faramir’s sight.

The room was illuminated by a collection of candles that it would have shamed a wealthy lord to waste. The centerpiece of the display was a massive bed draped with trailing black and crimson sheets and fur throws. The demon stood at the foot of the decadent creation staring down at the nude form that sprawled on the bed. Boromir was like a bright gem displayed in a jeweller’s box.

Faramir threw himself against the clear barrier, pounding on blockage with hands that throbbed at the abuse so soon after their earlier injury. “BOROMIR!” The scream echoed in Faramir’s own ears but his sleeping brother didn’t react in the least. The demon however looked in Faramir’s direction and a truly frightening smile pulled at his lips. Eyes flashed completely black for a moment before returning to a semblance of humanity. At the same moment he shrugged out of the robe he wore and let it fall to the floor, leaving him as bare as Boromir.

The sight of those eyes was enough to make flashbacks of old nightmares rip into Faramir’s gut but the terror twisted in an entirely new direction as the creature crawled up the bed to crouch on hands and knees above Boromir.

“Don’t you touch him! I’ll kill you if you touch him!” Faramir shouted out a warning he had no way of enforcing.

Laughing softly, Aragorn’s mouth dropped down and he began nuzzling at the far side of Boromir’s face. Kisses were scattered over cheeks, lips, nose and forehead. Whispers fell from Aragorn’s lips. “My love, my own, my precious. Open your beautiful eyes.”

Somehow, despite the fact the bed was at least five long steps from the wall, Faramir heard every word.

Lashes fluttered and a long, sad sigh gusted out of Boromir. “Aragorn. Mmm, I dreamt you left.”

“Never for more than a moment, my love.”

“BOROMIR!” Faramir screamed the name at the top of his lungs but his brother didn’t notice in the slightest. “Boromir, I’m here! BOROMIR!”

Arms lifted, pulling Aragorn down into a kiss. Lips parted in invitation and Boromir moaned, arching up into the body poised above him. Fingers threaded into long dark hair, letting it slip through then petting the mussed strands.

At the end of the impossibly lengthy kiss, Aragorn dragged his mouth off and downward. He licked, nipped and sucked at Boromir’s throat before continuing lower. Pausing at Boromir’s heaving chest, Aragorn turned his face sideways. Resting his cheek at one pebbled nipple, he shot a wicked grin in Faramir’s direction and carefully mouthed the words ‘he loves me’.

“It’s a trick!” Faramir shouted right back. Boromir might not be able to hear his brother’s screams, but it was clear that the demon was all too aware of their audience.

Turning his attention back to the body underneath him, Aragorn sucked hard at both peaked nipples before easing himself up to sit on his heels.

“NO!” Boromir protested the withdrawal.

“I brought you a gift,” Aragorn pacified. “Don’t you want it?”

“I want you.” Sitting up he tried to catch Aragorn and pull him back into another kiss. “Nothing else matters.”

“My dear, sweet Boromir, it will only take a moment.” Climbing off the bed, Aragorn padded over to a small table and lifted a cut glass bottle. “Come here, my love. Please.”

A look of curiosity on his face, Boromir slid to the edge of the bed and stood, stretching out sleep-stiffened muscles in a manner too provocative not to have been purposeful.

Aragorn’s finger crooked. “Over here.”

The demon stood near enough to the barrier that held Faramir away that they could have touched if the invisible divider didn’t prevent it. When Boromir came close as well, Faramir swallowed and spread his fingers wide on the barricade. Faramir hadn’t realized it, but their long separation had blunted his memories even though he’d been focused on Boromir to the exclusion of all else for two years. To see Boromir so close and so vibrant after all this time was exhilarating. Adoration that had simmered low in the back of Faramir’s mind blazed up stronger than ever. His heart raced and his body ached to close the distance between them. “Boromir, please.” Faramir pressed tight to the clear wall, begging to be heard. “Boromir!”

A frown darkened Boromir’s eyes and he turned with a look of puzzlement to the stare in Faramir’s direction. “Aragorn, there’s something odd…”

“Smell this, my love.” The demon interrupted. He caught Boromir’s chin and forcibly turned his face away from the wall. “It’s made with the distilled essence of flowers that grow in the uppermost reaches of mountainsides.” The stopper was lifted out and traced down the centre of Boromir’s chest. The substance left a glistening trail in its wake.

Boromir shivered, a full body quake. “It’s warm… tingling.” A cautious finger was touched to the gleaming line. He sniffed, and then rubbed his fingers together. “It feels… odd.” A nervous laugh huffed out.

“It won’t hurt you. You know I would never hurt you.” Aragorn assured, even as he poured out a substantial handful of the perfumed oil and began rubbing all over Boromir’s shoulders, chest and stomach. “You can trust me, my love.”

When Aragorn’s fingers dropped down to massage the unguent over Boromir’s cock and sack, Boromir gasped and retreated, which put his spine right to the barrier where Faramir stood. Cursing, Boromir plastered himself backward, only to bow out into the contact a moment later. His shoulder blades rolled against the wall. “AHH! Aragorn! It’s setting my skin on fire.” What might have been a complaint in a less reverent tone came out as astonished praise.

Faramir had flinched away at the muffled thud of Boromir hitting the divider, pulling the sheet tighter around himself. As the tone of Boromir’s moans went from startled to utterly aroused, Faramir found himself right up against the clear wall once more. He couldn’t bring himself to look away as the demon set about coating every inch of Boromir’s front with the gleaming oil.

“Talk to me, my light. What does it feel like?” Aragorn eased upright, dragging his slick palm up Boromir’s leg and wrapping his fingers around his lover’s quickly thickening shaft. “Tell me.”

“I don’t know.” There was a breathless quality to Boromir’s voice. “Like standing too close to a fire. Like you’re breathing against my skin everywhere at once.” He squirmed, trapped against the wall by Aragorn’s body pressed tight to his. “I can’t… Oh Aragorn. Touch me. You have to touch me. I burn.”

“I am touching you, love.” Aragorn’s face buried into thick blond hair making Boromir moan and tip his head to one side to expose himself to his lover’s nibbling teeth.

“Do it, Aragorn. Drink from me. I want you to,” Boromir pleaded, grinding against skin then shuddering.

“Not yet.” Lips right at Boromir’s ear, Aragorn looked up and met Faramir’s gaze. “Will you trust me further, love? Will you let me slip my fingers inside you so you can feel the blaze there too? It won’t hurt you, it will just rouse you… I promise.” Reaching around, Aragorn pulled hair away from the nape of Boromir’s neck and traced a slippery looking circle there. Even as he spoke to his lover, Aragorn held Faramir’s eyes with his own. “I want to bury myself inside you.” The phrase growled out making both the brothers shiver. “I want to feel you buck against me and hear you plead while I thrust deep inside you.”

Faramir shook his head vehemently and mouthed the word ‘no’ even as Boromir hissed out a low, sizzling “YES!”

Still holding Faramir’s shocked stare, Aragorn caught at Boromir’s shoulder and turned him around with a move that skirted the edge of violence but didn’t quite cause harm. Faramir scrambled backward, tripping and falling over the trailing edge of his sheet as Boromir’s naked, aroused body was suddenly pressed to the invisible divide. Landing on his arse, Faramir’s heels tried to find some purchase to shove his body away from the display.

Nothing in Faramir’s life had prepared him for the act of raw sexuality being preformed in front of him. No kisses, awkward gropes in the safety of darkness, or even the time he and Eomer had taken turns loosing their virginity to a chamber-maid in the frail shelter of a linen closet could have equipped Faramir for the sight before him.

One of Boromir’s arms was bent over his head; the other was twisted at his side, his hand keeping Boromir from being crushed to the wall. His entire body was tense with anticipation. His legs were spread wide, with the muscles standing out under the skin. Boromir’s entire body undulated, rocking against whatever Aragorn was doing behind him. What really tore Faramir’s guts out, however, was the look on Boromir’s face. That expression of absolute rapture was impossible to look away from.

Unconsciously, Faramir crept back over to the divide, climbing to his feet as he neared the barrier. Fingers lifted, touched the wall right at the level of Boromir’s trembling stomach then pulled back as if burnt. Boromir’s breath caught audibly and was then released in low, wrenching moan. His mouth stayed open and he panted, tiny sobs that sounded anything but sad emerged with every heave of his chest.

“Please!” Boromir whispered. “Please, oh please.”

Biting his lip, Faramir extended his fingers once more. Held inches away by the demon’s magic, Faramir was still able to trace the lines of Boromir’s arching throat and press his fingertips to the heated spot where his brother’s forehead rested on the other side of the barrier. Boromir whimpered and turned his face, so Faramir found his hand spread just out of reach of Boromir’s shining cheek.

Boromir’s body jolted and Aragorn let out a hissing moan. Faramir’s hand retreated and he touched the fingers to his mouth as if to soothe an unexpected burn.

“There’s nothing like it, love.” Aragorn crooned. “Nothing like the feel of your body in my arms, your tight bottom riding against my hips. You are the very sweetest piece of work in the whole of the world. I don’t know how any man could look at you and not want to spread your legs and drive into you from dusk until dawn.”

Boromir’s eyes were squeezed tightly shut. He didn’t seem to be reacting to Aragorn’s heated whispers but instead his body writhed in time to slow steady thrusts. The filthy patter hit its real target, however. Faramir felt his stomach lurch and he gasped in reaction.

“Your lips feels like a bonfire when they close around me,” Aragorn continued. “I can never get enough of you sucking me. It’s almost as good as when I swallow you down, love. Every inch of you makes my mouth water.” He growled and Boromir trembled. “Do you want my hand wrapped around you, my darling? Do you want me to squeeze away that ache between your legs while fuck you through this wall and out the other side.”

“Yesss… touch me. Please. Touch me,” Boromir begged. His erection, pushed to the barrier, was dripping a steady stream of pale drops that smeared wetly on the surface. “TOUCH ME!”

Faramir knelt down in a near trance, his open palm pressed to the murky mess and he breathed heavily through his mouth. His head fell forward to rest on the barricade and he stared. When Aragorn’s hand appeared, Faramir couldn’t hold in the cry of disappointment that another’s fingers were wrapping around what he wanted to touch.

Aragorn pumped his hand and Boromir lost all sense of restraint. He wailed and threw his head back to rest on Aragorn’s shoulder. Eyes opened but stared sightlessly up at the ceiling.

“Let it go, love. Spray it right into his pretty face.”

If Boromir had any idea what his lover had said, he gave no indication. His body simply reacted to the oil soaked hand pulling at his aching erection. He shuddered violently and milky seed splattered out of him, hitting the wall right at the level of Faramir’s face.

Faramir’s fingers spasmed against the wall. He let go a wail before falling backward, pulling the sheet over him like a shroud and huddling underneath it in shame. Long moments later, when Faramir finally dared to emerge from his self-imposed cocoon, he wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed that the wall had darkened to impenetrable black once more.

*

Faramir dragged his sore palms across the surface of wall, frowning at the slick material. It had remained stubbornly solid ever since he’d retreated from the realization of how aroused he’d become while watching his beloved brother in the throes of passion.

“There’s nothing to see right now, pretty one. Boromir is sleeping again,” Aragorn announced softly from behind Faramir’s back. The voice caused Faramir to whirl around. The demon sat cross-legged on the bed, looking up with a smug smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I quite wore him out. You only saw the first bit of what we got up to. Still, I got the impression you had suffered enough distress for the moment so I spared you the next four hours of it.” Aragorn stretched out, laying down with one hand propping up his head. His black-clad form almost disappeared against the midnight sheets.

Faramir grew absolutely still, fury bubbling up inside him.

“I’ve never used that oil on Boromir before. It added a pleasant urgency to his need… not that he isn’t a perfect slut under normal circumstances.” Blue-grey eyes sparkled with mischief as they gazed up at Faramir. “Your father trained him to be quite the shameless whore in bed. He’ll do absolutely anything I want him to.”

With a roar of wordless anger, Faramir threw himself at the demon. His fingers wrapped around Aragorn’s neck as the tumbled off the far side of the narrow bed. Strong hands encircled Faramir’s wrists and pulled them away with ease. A perfectly controlled roll turned them over and Aragorn forced Faramir’s limbs flat to the floor. Maddeningly enough to Faramir, the demon was chuckling in amusement as he perched atop Faramir’s trapped body.

“It’s going to be such a treat serving you, pretty one. None of the other kings of Gondor have ever been so young and filled with such naive passion… or such delicious guilt. Denethor was never as innocent as you. He was already planning his bloody empire inside his mind when he was a mere child. I suppose it comes from you’re being the second son. The second best.”

Faramir glared up at his captor, a truly poisonous expression.

Leaning over, Aragorn rested his forehead against Faramir’s. “I could take this wall down, my king. You could be the one to bend over lovely Boromir and receive his sleepy kisses. I could keep it dark; keep him on the edge of dreams. He would never know it was you. Ah, but that wouldn’t be what you wanted at all, would it? You want him completely aware of who you are when you fasten your lips to his.” Aragorn whispered in a silky tone. “It could happen. Boromir would welcome your touch, sweet one. He would delight in it. I know what’s in his mind. I’ve spent entire days swimming through him while he slept. I’ve needed no other entertainment since I acquired lovely Boromir.” A seductive smile accompanied the words. “He dreams of you constantly, Faramir. Boromir dreams of you, my lord. He fantasizes about you wearing a thin white chemise, sitting on the bed next to his and speaking of kisses. He so wanted to cross that narrow divide and press you to the mattress, to explore your entire body with his tongue.”

“Stop it,” Faramir pleaded, but he was no longer struggling to escape. There was something decidedly odd about what the demon had just said, but it was overpowered by Faramir’s absolutely primal reaction to the suggestion of lying down with Boromir. Faramir’s unsatisfied erection returned with a vengeance. If the demon didn’t stop whispering such obscenities, Faramir was afraid he’d orgasm simply from the lurid fantasies Aragorn’s words were crafting inside his head.

“Say it, pretty one. Say you want me to take this wall down so you can crawl into Boromir’s bed and show him how much you’ve grown since you’ve been apart. You want him to realize you’re not that little boy he used to coddle, but a man who can match him in every way.” Aragorn’s lips brushed Faramir’s left temple. “Can you picture the curve of his spine? Wouldn’t you like to run your fingers over his skin as he turns away… as he drops his face into the sheet and lifts his rear… offering himself for mounting?”

“Stop it.” Faramir’s eyes closed and he let out a defeated sob of air. “Just stop it. Please.”

Sitting up, Aragorn smiled at the young man below him. “Poor baby, I realize that Boromir and Eomer have outdone themselves protecting you from the harsh truths of what was going on within your twisted little family circle… but you’ve been out in the real world for two years. I should have thought that it would have seasoned you a bit more than it has.” A surprising gentle touch brushed Faramir’s hair back out of his face. “Here it is, my lord… the plain undecorated facts…” Aragorn tugged at the hank of hair nearest his fingers. “Pay attention, little boy,” he scolded. “Denethor kept you all high up in that tower too long, making certain that the four of you… and everyone else in the world… knew that HIS family was something entirely apart from every other human in all of Middle-Earth.”

Faramir frowned, feeling the need to plug his ears and scream just as strongly as he felt the urge to hear what the demon had to say.

“It’s not surprising that you all turned to each other. No one else would dare intrude into your precious royal circle. No one else is good enough for the children of Denethor… except as a passing fancy, a day’s amusement.”

“No…stop.” Faramir’s head started to shake.

“Your father started sleeping with Boromir when he fifteen years old. Boromir submitted to anything… absolutely anything… the old man wanted. He played the part of a willing… nay, even an eager… lover, for the soul purpose of keeping Denethor’s grasping hands off your tender little body, Faramir, my sweet.” Aragorn’s voice could not be shut out. “Dear Boromir has never lain with anyone except Denethor or I… and has only ever seriously wanted one other lover in his entire life.”

Faramir’s breath caught.

“You.” The word practically rippled the air around them, it was so intensely voiced. “You. The very same innocent that he sacrificed himself to preserve is the one body Boromir has most wanted to plunder.” Aragorn laughed. “Oh yes… And then there’s dear Eomer and Eowyn, who have been playing ‘special little games’ with each other since Eomer turned fifteen… at Eowyn’s instigation, I should add. She’s quite the calculating little vixen. I like her. She’s my kind of girl. But surely you must have noticed, Faramir?” he mocked. “Eowyn’s been wiggling after your attention as well. She’s absolutely burning for a game of Eowyn in the middle with you and Eomer.”

“STOP IT!”

“Not that Eowyn will let Eomer stick his cock to her. No, that one last thing has to wait until you return to them and she can seduce you into joining the two of them in their extremely tangled sheets. Just in case a baby results, she has to be able to blame you rather than dear Eomer. Her plan really is quite clever. She marries you, sleeps with you and Eomer both, and whatever happens… children of the royal line will sit on the thrones in both Edoras and Minas Tirith when the time comes.”

“You can’t know any of that! You’re just spouting whatever ridiculous filth comes to mind.”

“Faramir, my darling boy. I know every little twisted notion in Eowyn’s mind. I quite painstakingly dug through her thoughts the day she first summoned me and ordered me to take Boromir away so you would be the next king of Gondor rather than him.”

Faramir went dead still. Mouth hanging open, he blinked several times, staring up the demon. “Eowyn?”

“Why… yes, your dear sweet-faced sister paid me to remove him with Boromir’s own body, blood and soul… without a second thought. She hates him. She’s always hated him, Faramir, from the first moment she saw him. So she tossed him out like so much garbage. She commands me… just as you could if you wanted to, if you knew how.”

“How?” he asked in a tiny whisper.

“Would you like me to teach you how, pretty one?” Aragorn’s eyes gleamed blackly. “Would like the power your father held over me? Can you bring yourself to wield me even knowing it would corrupt you with every task you ask me to perform? Are you truly your father’s son as much as Eowyn is your father’s daughter?”

Faramir turned his face away, looking instead to the wall that concealed his brother. “Yes… and no,” he finally answered. “I don’t know. I suppose we’ll find out. Teach me. Teach me everything.”

*

Eowyn looked around the shadowy room with an expression of disgust. She felt the need to get rid of some of the clutter Denethor had collected over the years, but she wasn’t quite certain the best way to dispose of the things without drawing attention to herself. For the moment, Eowyn had contented herself with shoving the worst of it into one of the large trunks, covering it with the parchment that detailed the renovations to Meduseld, stamping it all down with her foot and closing the lid. Upon realizing what exactly was crusted on the fabric of Boromir’s old clothing, Eowyn hadn’t wanted to touch the soiled garments. Even more disturbing was finding not only a pair of Faramir’s breeches, but also one of her own undergarments in the pile. They, like all of Boromir’s clothes, were marked with what appeared to be Denethor’s dried seed.

It wasn’t as if she needed the book about the demon to perform the chant any longer. She had memorized the words of calling by the second time she had used them. Still, no one, most especially including Eomer was likely to wander across her by accident within the safety of Denethor’s hidden room. Eowyn just needed to summon the creature, demand a simple service of it, and then send it away. Her brother didn’t need to know she’d broken her promise not to employ the demon ever again, not if she worded her orders correctly, Eowyn reasoned.

Taking a deep breath, Eowyn began the call. The first recital of it now flowed as easily as second and third. When silence fell once more, Eowyn backed up to put her spine to one wall and waited. Aragorn never usually made her wait more than a few minutes, although he never again came as quickly as he had appeared the first time she had summoned him to her service.

A creeping worry began to wrap around her heart as the time stretched. Could it be that she no longer had control over the demon now that Denethor was dead? No, that wasn’t possible. Eowyn had done the research. She was certain she’d figured it out the way of things after Eomer had questioned her about this very problem. Until Faramir was first crowned, and then had at least one child to begin a new family line, she should still be considered in the direct line of succession. She should still be able to call and command the damned creature. Even then, if she were the queen, Eowyn was fairly certain she would still maintain her power of the demon.

Worry was just growing into panic when the hint of darkness that preceded Aragorn’s arrival finally began to coalesce by the table. There was a conspicuous fury sparking about him when he turned Eowyn’s way. “What do you want now, girl?” His tone was cold and biting and his eyes were pure black and glowing.

Swallowing, Eowyn drew herself up to her full height and stared right back at him. Her chin was lifted and she crossed her arms over her chest. “The first thing I expect is for you to show the proper obedience that a slave owes its master,” she snapped out.

“You are not, and never will be ‘my master’, girl. You are nothing more than a child who has happened across a very dangerous toy, and can’t resist playing with it for as long as the owner is unaware of your theft,” Aragorn hissed. “The kings of Gondor are the only men who can ever claim full ownership over me… and you, little girl, can never be king, no matter who you happen to spread your legs for.”

It took all of Eowyn’s control not to snatch up the nearest heavy object and fling it at the demon. The act would achieve nothing except to embarrass herself. “I have a job for you,” she cut straight to the task. Talking with Aragorn was a waste of precious time. “And I want it done swiftly. None of your piddling around like you’ve done about delivering my message to Faramir… or taking your time about coming when I call you.”

“Faramir got your message. I made certain that it was delivered. It was done even before I saw to picking out and arming your assassin,” Aragorn snapped right back at her. “If Faramir chooses to ignore your summons, it is no concern of mine. I envy him the option.”

Blue eyes narrowed and Eowyn studied her magical servant. She knew in her heart that he had done the job he had bargained to perform. There was no way he couldn’t have. Denying the deal would have ripped the demon’s essence apart. Still, it was hard to believe that Faramir had simply chosen to ignore her plea for his return to Minas Tirith. “No more notes. You will find, tell him about Denethor, and MAKE him come home.”

“Make him?” Aragorn repeated in a disbelieving tone. “MAKE the future king of Gondor… my one true master… MAKE him do something. You must be mad, girl?”

Eowyn’s breath escaped in a shaking huff. “Denethor told him nothing. I am the only one who knows your chant of summoning. If I don’t teach it to Faramir, no one will… and if I cease to call you as well… what will you feed on then, demon?” she glared. “I’ve read the book, cover to cover. You could get by on the ordinary blood of your descendants for a time… but wait a generation.” Eowyn sneered. “Without at least one call and feeding by every king of Gondor and you diminish. You have to be fed by the king at least once in every lifetime or you will waste away to nothing, never able to die, never able to recover. A pitiful wraith of shadow and dust without the ability to affect anything, merely to watch the world change and suffer in silence.”

Aragorn’s lips pulled into a sneer, but he didn’t respond verbally.

“So…” Eowyn began again. “You will find Faramir. You will inform him of his impending coronation, and then you will force his return to Minas Tirith,” she listed. “Do you understand me?”

“Better than you can imagine, little girl,” Aragorn growled. “I will have him in the saddle and riding toward Minas Tirith within a day if all goes well. Will that suffice?”

“No, it won’t,” she countered. Now the choice was upon her, Eowyn couldn’t help but feel the need for a speedier resolution. “Can’t you just… bring him back… like you took away Boromir?”

“You would have me reveal myself to Faramir? You would have me reveal that YOU have commanded this retrieval to both Faramir… and to Eomer, who told you not to deal with me again?”

“It’s not my first choice, but we’re running out of time. I’ll explain it to them somehow. Just do it.” Eowyn’s patience was gone. Eomer was going to see the bite Aragorn inflicted no matter. At least this way, they would have Faramir home with all possible speed.

Aragorn’s head inclined. “Tomorrow evening. I should be able to deliver him to the White Tower by tomorrow evening.”

Eowyn wanted to complain, but she held it in. It was only fair she allow the creature some time to search for Faramir, since she had no idea where to tell him to start looking. “Fine.” She lifted her wrist in offering, aware that he would likely decline it, but hoping it might be enough.

“Your throat. I won’t take anything less.”

She glared for a moment before lifting her own hair out of the way so he wouldn’t have an excuse to touch her more than absolutely necessary.

*

They had been in the middle of a lesson of sorts when Aragorn had suddenly stilled, his head cocking to one side as if listening to a distant call. Aragorn had muttered a low curse, something that included Eowyn’s name. Dismissing Faramir from his attention, Aragorn had banished the divide between the two chambers with a wave and paced over to kneel on the elaborate bed that held Faramir’s brother.

Faramir had watched, fascinated, as Aragorn had crawled over the massive mattress to hover above Boromir. Bending over Boromir, Aragorn’s actions had been more than simply affectionate, but rather, almost worshipful. Fingertips had traced over Boromir’s closed eyes and face.

“I suppose I should have the halflings come up and tend you, my love,” Aragorn had said in a soft whisper. “But this is actually quite flattering to your features.” A thumb brushed over the hint of a pale moustache and beard that were just beginning to decorate Boromir’s face. “Your father would have hated it, so perhaps you should grow it out, like your brother has.” As if finally acknowledging Faramir’s presence in the room, Aragorn’s eyes lifted. “I could wrap him in an even deeper sleep, but I shouldn’t be gone too very long… and you’ve earned this, I suppose. Be careful with him if he awakens, pretty one.”

“I will. You know I will.” Faramir had promised easily.

The pledge had made Aragorn smile grimly. He had dropped one more kiss on unresponsive lips before eeling backward off the bed. A cloak had seemed to sprout from his shoulders, drifting out to wrap around him and Aragorn’s eyes darkened to black. Faramir had realized immediately that he’d seen exactly that vision in his nightmares since childhood, and then Aragorn had vanished.

Pacing over, Faramir stood by the bed for long moments. It seemed almost impossible that after all this time Boromir was finally here within reach. Faramir’s head had been spinning with all the rules, history, and news that Aragorn had been imparting on him, but everything they’d been speaking of faded to unimportance as Faramir sat down on the edge of the bed.

Moving with a desire he couldn’t explain even to himself, Faramir caught the edge of a tangled black sheet and pulled it gently away to reveal Boromir down to his hips. The lines of his body weren’t cut as precisely as Faramir remembered and he was strangely pale. Boromir’s skin was also marked in several places by bruises that surrounded small dark wounds.

“He’s feeding on you,” Faramir murmured, more to himself than anything else. Leaning over, he touched the most severe of the abrasions, the one at Boromir’s throat. The contact made Boromir sigh and turn his face to the side, as if to allow easier access to his neck.

Mouth dry and fingers shaking, Faramir edged closer. His touch drifted downward, skimming Boromir’s collarbones before daring lower. Expecting hard muscle, Faramir stared in fascination as his palm traced over unbelievably soft skin. Ribs were mapped out before Faramir smoothed over Boromir’s stomach. A faint trail of golden-brown hair began just below the cup of Boromir’s navel. It thickened to the beginnings of a proper patch just where the sheet shielded anything further from view.

Another, deeper sigh dragged Faramir’s eyes up from that too-intriguing path to Boromir’s face. Hazy green eyes studied Faramir from under heavy lashes. Boromir smiled sleepily. His hand rose with near impossible slowness to brush at Faramir’s cheek. As fingertips stroked downy fur, Boromir’s expression took on a confused overlay. “…odd dream…” the observation was faint. Boromir’s thumb brushed over Faramir’s lips. “You’re still beautiful, even all grown up.” His eyes closed again even as Boromir tugged gently to pull Faramir into a kiss.

Protesting wasn’t even considered. Faramir fell into the embrace eagerly. All too aware of his promise to be careful, Faramir tried to control himself but Boromir’s lips parted so sweetly and his tongue coaxed the kiss deeper. Faramir surged closer until he practically covered Boromir like a blanket.

A pleased noise vibrated Boromir’s chest and he slipped a hand inside the thin robe that Aragorn had clothed Faramir in. The loose garment gaped open, allowing Boromir to smooth his palm all the way around until it rested at the small of Faramir’s back. Fingers caressed without urgency. A leg lifted and curved around Faramir, taking the sheet with it. The silky fabric was warm with the heat of Boromir’s body.

Faramir groaned his arousal into Boromir’s mouth. The delving kiss seemed to be going on forever, not that he minded. Never in his life had Faramir been so expertly, so thoroughly kissed. He never wanted it to end, never wanted to Boromir to realize that this wasn’t just a dream. When Boromir finally pulled back from the kiss, Faramir couldn’t help but whimper his disappointment.

“Faramir?” Boromir’s gaze sharpened, his brow just beginning to furrow. The hand caressing the base of Faramir’s spine stilled, while the other lifted to touch Faramir’s face. Boromir’s touch traced out his brother’s features. “Faramir, am I dreaming?”

The temptation was there to say ‘yes’ and press down for another of those soul-destroying kisses, but Faramir knew that would only delay the inevitable. “I’m here, Boromir. You couldn’t return to me, so I came to you this time.”

“But…” Disbelieving fingertips drifted across Faramir’s baby-fine beard, moustache and the other changes that spending two hard years on the road had done to his face. “You haven’t been eating. You’re as thin as a late-winter buck.” Forcibly reminded by the observation that he had both an arm and leg wrapped around his brother, Boromir tensed in embarrassment and made as if to squirm away from the intimate pose.

“Boromir…” Faramir moved to contain his brother without giving the impression he was trapping him. “It’s all right, Boromir. Please. Don’t pull away from me. You don’t have to hold yourself back from me any longer. We’re not children anymore.”

“You’re only sixteen.”

It was Faramir’s turn to frown. “I’m eighteen,” he corrected. “Look at me, Boromir.” Faramir’s head tipped to one side. “How long do you think it’s been since Aragorn took you, Boromir?”

He licked his lips and his expression crunched even further. “I don’t know, maybe a few months. I gave Aragorn a message for you. He said you were likely just busy and you would get back to me eventually.”

“No, no, no. Two years, Boromir. It’s been two years. I’ve been looking for you all this time. I’m eighteen,” Faramir repeated.

All the breath was shocked out of Boromir. “Where is Aragorn?” Confusion was transforming into a mix of anger and remorse. “I’m sorry, Faramir. I’m so sorry. I thought… where is Aragorn?”

“I told you to be careful with him, Faramir,” Aragorn scolded gently from off to the right, making both brothers turn that way.

“Tell me it’s a mistake,” Boromir requested in a faintly desperate tone. “Tell me it’s just a twist of magic, Aragorn. Tell me it hasn’t been two years.”

One black-shadowed shoulder shrugged absently. “I could. Do you want me to lie to you, my love? I will if that’s what you want. I could convince of you whatever you’d prefer to believe.”

“I want the truth,” Boromir demanded, pushing upright.

“The truth.” Aragorn sighed. “The truth is that you’ve been happy here for two years, happier than you’d ever been before, my love… my light. The truth is I saved you from your father, brought you back from edge of destruction, healed you and loved you.” He paced over and planted one knee on the bed. Faramir was pulled into Aragorn’s circle of attention. His tone dropped to a rumbling growl. “The truth… is that your father is now dead, that all of Gondor is waiting to crown a new king, and that Eowyn has charged me with returning Faramir to Minas Tirith by tomorrow evening.”

“WHAT?” Faramir’s response was explosive.

“Really, Faramir…” Aragorn began in a weary manner. “If you want to be a decent ruler, then you’re going to have to start paying more attention to details. I have called you ‘my king’ at least three times since you arrived here and referred to Denethor in the past tense at every turn. Did you think I was just choosing my loyalties?” Aragorn’s lip curled. “I can’t choose anything. I serve the king of Gondor first, and whichever of his damned heirs calls me by way of the chant. I’ve no choice. I can’t say ‘I’m not in the mood today, call me again tomorrow’ or ‘I’d rather not follow that order, it’s too vile’. If I’m called, I go… or I’m ripped apart from the inside out.” His tone was disdainful. “We just spent three hours going over the rules of my bindings. Did you understand none of what I told you?” Aragorn settled himself on the bed. He started to reach out for Boromir’s hand but broke off the action at the last moment when Boromir drew away from the display of affection. Aragorn’s expression chilled to stone in response.

There was a long pause as each of them seemed to be sifting through their thoughts.

“I listened,” Faramir finally acknowledged in a soft whisper. “I heard every word.” His gaze drifted from Aragorn to Boromir, then back again. “I understood.” Faramir forced himself meet the demon’s eyes despite how terrifying he found the act. “I was never trained for the kingship. I could never be the ruthless commander that father was. I’m not the soldier that Boromir is. The people don’t adore me like they do him. I may not have Eomer’s aggressive nature or Eowyn’s ability to manipulate,” he admitted. “But I’m not above taking good advice when it’s given. I do listen and I’ve spent two years learning to read people.” Faramir shifted his attention to Boromir and his expression softened. “You love my brother and you’re doing everything within your power to make him happy. So I’m guessing that you told me what you did in order to protect this relationship you have with Boromir. You need me to know how to command you. Why?” Faramir looked at Aragorn. “I think you have a plan. Stop trying to trick me into doing what you want and just tell me what you’re up to. My willing cooperation can only improve your chances of succeeding.”

*

“I should have been more specific,” Eowyn complained in a low voice. “I should have specified an exact time for Faramir to be delivered.”

Her grumbles lifted Eomer’s attentions up from the papers strewn across the council table. “What you ‘should have done’… is you SHOULD HAVE listened to me when I told you not to deal with that leech ever again,” he snapped. Several of Gondor’s senior officers were waiting on Eomer to look over the maps and missives laid out before him and give them an answer about shifting the positions of several companies of men. The men in question were loitering at the far end of the massive chamber, near the doorway, and Eomer couldn’t help be feel as if they were watching him just a little too intently. He wanted to send the outside to wait, but was worried that would suggest he was afraid of them.

Eowyn dropped into the chair beside him. “This is all nonsense. I just know it is,” she whispered, gesturing to the nearest of the parchments. “They’re testing you, looking for any excuse to judge you unfit.” As more nobles and officers flocked to Minas Tirith in expectation of a coronation, both Eowyn and Eomer were growing progressively more short-tempered. “If Faramir doesn’t accept the crown within the next few days there’s going to be trouble with the soldiers. Having the demon fetch him here was the only practical option.”

“Using that ‘thing’ is asking for trouble,” Eomer rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “But I suppose you’re right. The sooner I’m done with all this nonsense and on my way back to the Riddermark the happier I’ll be. Faramir can have this damned empire. It’s nothing but a great stone yoke. I want out from underneath it and far away.”

“We have to stay a little while,” Eowyn reminded him. “Long enough to see to it that Faramir is in control of everything… long enough for a wedding… long enough to justify a baby.” She turned one of the maps with a fingertip. “You’re right. This is just nonsense. Moving a company from here to Dol Amroth is completely unwarranted. The army is up to something, love.”

Eomer sighed. “I’ll tell them no… to all of it. If anything, we should be moving soldiers out to the further territories. Most of the lords of closer holdings have small units already… and all of those nobles are here in the city and prepared to declare themselves for Faramir.”

“Unless the captains of the army mean to argue the succession,” Eowyn supposed in a very soft voice. “Then taking over some of the more important holdings would be high on their list of priorities.”

Eomer cursed and raised his eyes to look at the huddled grouping by the door. A quaver in the air caught his attention instead. His expression of confusion caused Eowyn to swing around and look toward that same spot.

“It’s the creature,” Eowyn let out a curse, all too aware that the soldiers were now going to witness the encounter.

Aragorn solidified slowly, his cape billowing about him even more than usual. A truly terrifying smile marked his face. “My lady, as you requested… I provide.” The left side of his cloak pulled close to Aragorn’s body and Faramir was revealed with a flourish.

Eowyn was out of her seat and half-way across the room when Aragorn’s right arm performed a similar twitch. The sight of Boromir stopped her cold. Eowyn’s mouth dropped open and she let out a strangled note of protest.

Aragorn stepped backward, distancing himself from both the brothers so not only Eowyn and Eomer could see who stood there, but the soldiers by the doorway got a clear view as well. “Boromir is mine to do with as I please, by your own bargain, my lady.” Aragorn responded to Eowyn’s unspoken anger and astonishment. “I choose…” There was a noticeable, almost apprehensive pause. “I choose to release him… to return him.” The statement rasped, as if it were tearing Aragorn’s throat as he gave it voice. He took two more steps backward. His eyes devoured Boromir, clearly memorizing the sight, before shifting to Faramir. Aragorn absolutely blazed with a dark inner fire.

“You read me. You know I meant what I promised,” Faramir addressed Aragorn in a soft voice. “Trust me.”

“It seems I have to, don’t I… my king.” Without any further courtesies, Aragorn wrapped himself back up in his trailing cloak and vanished.

“Faramir…” Eomer pushed past his sister to close the distance and catch at his half-brother’s upper arms. “You have no idea how happy I am to see you.” Feeling no resistance, Eomer dragged the other into a crushing embrace. Faramir was tense for only a breath, and then he let himself return the show of affection. When they finally parted, both young men were smiling.

Keeping one hand resting on Eomer’s shoulder, Faramir turned so he could see both Boromir and the small group that lingered at the end of the chamber. The soldiers were staring, stunned into stillness. “My brother is home,” Faramir began in a loud voice. “And will be taking command of the armies of Gondor for me… as of this moment.”

That announcement caused much blinking and a few quizzical murmurs. Boromir drew in a steadying breath. He purposefully straightened up before performing a deep bow in Faramir’s direction. “If my king gives me permission, I will see to announcing your arrival and setting things to order in your Tower.” His voice boomed out for the benefit of every part of their audience.

“See to it, my Captain. I have much to discuss with Prince Eomer and our sister.”

Boromir’s boot heels clicked as he whirled around. His own cloak lifted as he made the sudden movement revealing his crisply pressed officer’s uniform, which was in direct contrast to Faramir’s softer court garb. “Follow me,” the order clipped out as strode out the door. One gloved hand gestured that all the assembled soldiers should accompany him.

“Faramir, I suspect you’ve been mislead about certain things,” Eowyn began, still keeping her distance.

“Let’s take this elsewhere,” Faramir cut her off. “I think father’s private library would be a cozy place for a chat, don’t you, little sister?” Without waiting for her to agree, Faramir drew Eomer along behind him as he walked over to the doorway.

*

Aragorn had sifted through Faramir’s thoughts, examined Faramir’s intentions, and done what he could to assure himself that this was the right course of action. Aragorn now had to let himself trust the young man, and that was the most daunting part of the task. A hundred things could go wrong with the plan, not the least of which… Faramir could simply change his mind.

It was habit that caused Aragorn to materialize in Boromir’s now empty bedroom. Aragorn had grown accustomed to being welcomed home by Boromir’s sleepy smiles and open arms. The room’s emptiness was infuriating. A gesture tossed the table and chairs against one wall, but the clatter of breaking dishes and the crack of wood wasn’t nearly satisfying enough. Aragorn’s eyes rested on the discarded crimson robe that lay across the foot of the bed. It was the first thing to burst into flames.

Not content with allowing the fire to spread at it’s own pace, Aragorn’s arm waved. A blaze consumed the whole of the bed in seconds. The draperies that concealed the black stone of the tower were quick to catch. The fabric rippled and lifted in the tremendous heat of the growing fire.

Aragorn glared one more time at the fast-charring wreck that had been the bed he shared with Boromir, and then took himself away from the room with a thought. There was no way for the blaze to escape the tower room. It would burn itself out in time. Once all the fuel was gone everything that marked Boromir’s time living in Barad-dur would be turned, appropriately enough, into cold ashes.

His next stop was the courtyard at the very base of Barad-dur. As expected, the servant that Aragorn had the least contact with was down there grubbing about in the less-than-fertile dirt. Aragorn wasn’t in the mood to explain himself or listen to the chatter of his halfling servants.

Samwise obliged him by keeping his face down and speaking as few words as possible to the master of the tower. “Yes, yer lordship.”

“Boromir is gone and I won’t be having any more guests. I’m done with the lot of you.” Aragorn’s open hand gestured toward the outer wall surrounding the tower. A watery, green-tinted hole formed, and then expanded rapidly. The half-circle was six-feet high and fairly wide when it stopped growing. “This portal will only remain open for two hours, so don’t waste any time. It only allows passage one way, so don’t try to come back for anything in tower or leave anything alive behind yourselves and expect it to survive. Send whatever you wish through ahead of you… the animals, anything of value you desire. Let the others know,” Aragorn snapped out the instructions. “You’re not my problem anymore. I’m leaving.”

If this were Frodo, he might have asked where the portal lead or what happened to Boromir. Merry or Pippin might have pestered
Aragorn with silly questions like ‘why?’ or ‘what about the silver-ware?’. Sam knew better. With the end of twelve years of servitude finally dangling before him, there was no way the hobbit was going to waste any time questioning his luck. He just nodded his head and mumbled “Thank y’, yer lordship,” before scuttling off to fetch his companions.

Turning in place, Aragorn took two steps, ripping across the land so he ended up in another part of Middle-Earth entirely. His choice was made unconsciously, but Aragorn wasn’t surprised to find himself in the frigid heart of Rivendell a moment later. That he appeared on the grave-site of his long departed mother was, however, a bit revealing. His Aragorn body was only the latest in a long line of shells he had inhabited since Isildur, but the memories of this one lifetime were recent and still vivid. He blamed part of their unique essence on being fostered by the elves. So many of the older personalities that he had taken over were too similar. Most of them had been born, grown and been married within the simpler culture of the Dunedain.

Perhaps he should have gone elsewhere, someplace with bustling life and colour like Harad, but Aragorn suspected it would have been too tempting to strike out in such a place. Controlled destruction of lives and property had its place, but completely senseless destruction was a waste of resources. Considering his mood, it would be random violence that would quite likely erupt. The fear and doubt he felt right now were uniquely painful sensations. It was one thing to depend on the untouchable king of Gondor for sustenance, it was quite another to allow someone he couldn’t even spy on to determine whether or not Aragorn would ever be happy again.

Entering Gondor without being called or while fulfilling a chore was forbidden, impossible. Even spying within the claimed boarders of that land was beyond Aragorn’s reach unless it was done under supervision. He was blinded, isolated and more than a little doubtful of Faramir’s promises. He couldn’t wile away the time in dreams, either, for Aragorn didn’t sleep. All that was left was thinking and worrying.

*

If Eowyn had any doubts that Faramir knew everything, those doubts were completely shattered after he led them through the mirror and into Denethor’s secret room. Faramir had to drag Eomer when they started through the hidden entrance, suggesting that Eomer had never come this way before. That was some small consolation to Faramir.

Aragorn had told Faramir all about this room and its contents, but it was more than a little difficult to conceal his awe than Faramir thought it would be. “Full light!” The command sounded steadier than he felt.

The globe at the centre of the room glowed to its maximum brightness, illuminating every dusty corner of the grimly decorated room. Faramir’s upper lip curled at seeing the oddities trapped in jars and desiccated creatures nailed to one wall. He was impressed, however with the colourful map Aragorn had explained to him. It was minutely detailed with constantly shifting lines and marks to illustrate the placement of troops and local boarders. Apparently the gleaming ball on the table was another tool that Denethor had used to watch his kingdom, but since Eowyn knew it only as a magical light, that would be the only use Faramir would put it to while she was here.

Faramir circled the room once looking over some of the odd tools Aragorn had told him about, establishing right at the start that his half-siblings now had to wait on his pleasure. By the time he looked back at them Eowyn was fuming and Eomer was staring down at the toes of his boots. “The first thing I have to know…” Faramir began. “Eomer…”

Hearing his name, Eomer looked up. His expression was tainted by shame.

“Did you know, Eomer? Did you know right from the start?” Faramir tried to keep his own face blank, but it was difficult. He was desperately hoping that all of Eomer’s actions hadn’t been calculated to deceive him.

Eomer swallowed, his head twitched but he managed to refrain from looking to his sister. That would suggest even more strongly that he had conspired with her. “Not at first. Not while you were still here in the Tower.” A breath hissed out. “Not before Boromir was taken.” His eyes attempted to convey sincerity. “I know what he meant to you… what he means to you. Eowyn didn’t understand, but I do. She didn’t mean to hurt you like she did, Faramir. It was a mistake.”

“What she meant to do was hurt Boromir,” Faramir’s voice raised. “Do you think she meant for him to just go off and live in a cottage by the sea? She expected that Aragorn would rape Boromir… and likely kill him eventually.” Faramir’s anger had been two years in the building and finally he had a clear target. Rounding on Eowyn, Faramir let himself shout as loudly as he wanted. No one would hear them in this chamber. “You bargained with Boromir’s life. You used his body like it was coin… to buy his own rape and murder!” Faramir’s hands clenched. “You knew everything. You knew what father was doing to him… the years of… of…” His voice failed briefly. “But still you sold Boromir off like a whore, like a slave. He’s your brother. Your own flesh and blood. If you could do that to him… what could Eomer and I possibly mean to you?”

“Faramir, that’s…” Eomer attempted to interrupt, without success.

“Boromir is not my brother. He was never MY brother, anymore than I was HIS sister,” Eowyn screamed back. “At best he ignored me as if I was no more than a servant, at worst…” she sneered rather than complete the sentence. Catching her breath, Eowyn began again in a tone that attempted to ingratiate her to Faramir, “You’ve got to understand, my love. You and Eomer are the only people I the world that matter to me. Everything I’ve done has been for the two of you.”

“LIAR!” Faramir accused. “Everything you’ve done has been for yourself. If you cared at all about me, if you’d considered my feeling for even a moment, you would have known. You should have realized what Boromir meant to me. If he’d died, if I hadn’t found him… it would have killed me.”

“What a load of rubbish!” Eowyn’s laugh was cold. “Boromir is nothing… was nothing but a bully and Denethor’s whore. The only reason you followed him around was because you didn’t know any better. You would have gotten over it once you were home and with the people who really cared about you, once you and I and Eomer had a chance to live without him and Denethor hanging over us like carrion birds. The world certainly wouldn’t have missed Boromir. This country will be better off with you on the throne than it ever was with Denethor or ever would be with Boromir. I did everyone a favour by taking him out of the line of succession.”

Backing up, Faramir stared at Eowyn, unable to relate this bitter young woman with his sweet little sister. There was a frightening lack of humanity in her eyes that Faramir had only ever seen in one other person. It was as Denethor were looking out of Eowyn’s eyes. “How many times have you called him?” Faramir demanded suddenly.

“What are you talking about?” Her tone was a cold hiss.

“Aragorn… how many times have you called him to you? How many times have you had to pay him with your own soul?”

Eowyn’s chin lifted and she glared across at Faramir. “I’ve done what I’ve had to do, for you, for Eomer.”

“He steals a part of you away every time you feed him. That’s what he lives on, not just blood… his master’s essence. The thing that makes them human. That was what made father the way he was… all those years of commanding Aragorn made him a monster. Aragorn absorbed more of our father’s soul with every feeding and our father became the creature.” Faramir stared at her. “It’s affecting you already, drying you up from the inside out. I only wish I could blame that first time on the effect he has… but that first time… when you sold Boromir… that was you. That was all you.”

“I know she’s used him at least five times… but it’s likely twice that much,” Eomer caught hold of Eowyn’s upper arm. “I told you not to use it. I begged you not to call that monster any more.” His head shook. “Even I can see there’s something wrong with you.”

“So now you turn on me as well!” Eowyn screeched at her brother. “After all I’ve done for the two of you, after all I’ve put up with, after all we’ve been through together!” she shook him off. “Someone in this family had step up and fix things. Someone had to do all the dirty work so you and Faramir could stay o’ so clean and noble.”

“Eowyn, that’s enough.” Eomer’s tone was stern.

“No, it’s not. I’ve had enough of this mewling. I don’t have to put up with this. I don’t need either of you. I have my own resources.” An evil smile pulled at her lips.

“Eomer!” Faramir snapped, demanding attention. “You are my legal heir at this moment. I, Faramir, son of Denethor, the rightful ruler of Gondor have no sister. I deny Eowyn. Witness that.”

“NO! NO! Don’t you dare!” Clear panic marked Eowyn’s cry.

“Witness it, Eomer. If you want to save your sister’s soul, witness it,” Faramir prompted. “You have to stop her from using Aragorn ever again if you want to save her, Eomer.”

“EOMER! NO!” Eowyn wailed.

Eyes shut tight, Eomer’s face dropped, but his voice was still audible. “So witnessed, my king.”

With a scream that quaked both men from their toes to their heads, Eowyn turned and ran out of the room as if all the legions of the legendary Saron were at her heels.

Eomer looked up at Faramir, a shattered expression on his face. “I love her, Faramir. I know you want to kill her right now, but she’s everything to me. You have to understand that. Everything Boromir is to you, Eowyn is to me. Please Faramir, please understand.”

“I do.” His nod was tight. “But you’ll have to marry another woman. You’ll have to marry someone, Eomer. You and I both will have to take wives, whether we want to or not. There will have to be children,” he said in a choked voice. “If Eowyn has a child by you, I won’t acknowledge it. It has to come from another woman. I promise to give YOUR firstborn the Riddermark, Eomer, no matter what happens with me and mine… I swear that your firstborn son will rule as a king in the Riddermark when his time comes… and Gondor too if I don’t have a child of my own…. but not if it’s born of Eowyn. You have to swear to me that she’ll have no power of any kind… ever. She’s dangerous, Eomer.” Faramir caught at the shoulder of Eomer’s tunic. “Swear it, or I will hunt her down and kill her for what she did to Boromir.”

“Maybe I can save her, help her recover herself, bring her back to what she was,” he bargained.

A weary sigh shook Faramir. He suspected it was a lost cause, but then, most everyone had told him that looking for Boromir had been a waste of his time. “You can try it… if that’s what you want, but she’s to have no power.” Faramir repeated the warnings. “No child of her’s will ever be legally acknowledged as your heir… either as your son… or as your sister-son. Swear it, Eomer.”

“Yes. All right. I swear it.” All the breath seemed to leave Eomer. If Faramir hadn’t caught him, Eomer would likely have collapsed to the floor.

Holding tight, Faramir whispered into his half-brother’s ear. “Stay. Stay until after the coronation. I want you here… but keep her out of my sight. Keep her away from me… away from Boromir.” He kissed the curve of Eomer’s ear. “Then take her to Edoras and never speak of her to me again. Can you do that?”

“Yes.” Eomer squeezed once before releasing Faramir. “I have to go find… I have business to tend to.”

Nodding, Faramir sighed. “Come see me again once your… business… is settled away. I have missed you, Eomer. I do want a chance to spend some time with you before you leave.”

Eomer’s head inclined. “My king…”

“My brother,” Faramir corrected.

*

Boromir’s gloved fingers ran absent strokes back and forth across the cold stone tomb he stood beside. The thing seemed massive, re-enforcing his deceptive memories of his father being at least seven feet tall and built like a fortress. If the cover of the crypt wasn’t sealed, Boromir would have risked cracking the rock to shove the lid off and see for himself that Denethor was really inside it. It wasn’t enough that he been told, and told again, that his father was rotting away inside this stone box. Boromir wished he could believe it to be true all the time, not just during the day when myriad duties and the sheer volume of people in the White Tower overwhelmed him. Boromir wanted to believe in the dark of the night while he lay in the rooms he’d inhabited since turning twelve. That was when Boromir needed to be certain Denethor was really gone, and that’s when it was hardest to believe.

He had actually considered reversing their childhood roles and running to crawl into Faramir’s bed demanding protection from nightmares, but Boromir didn’t dare. The innocence between them was gone and it would be too small a step from holding onto Faramir for comfort to falling into another kiss like they had shared in Barad-dur. Besides which, Faramir was in the king’s chambers now, and going to Denethor’s old bedroom by choice wasn’t something Boromir was eager to attempt. His compromise so far had been to doze in his own sitting room chair with the cloak Aragorn’s servants had provided wrapped around himself. The faint scent of smoke and Aragorn that clung to the fabric was likely just Boromir’s imagination, but it was enough to stop both Denethor and Faramir from invading his dreams for a few hours, long enough to prevent exhaustion from overtaking him during the rest of the time.

“Boromir…” Faramir appeared in the doorway to halls of the dead, a distant figure blocking sun-lit archway. “We’re waiting for you.”

“Sorry,” he responded without moving away from the tomb.

Three days of feverish, almost non-stop activity had brought them to this. The streets of Minas Tirith were lined with people awaiting the procession from the heart of the city to Pelennor Fields for the crowning. The courtyard of the White Tower was filled with magnificently decorated horses and riders. Every person within leagues, from the lowest tavern pot-boy to lords of the empire, were now waiting for the king and his chosen Captain to saddle up beside Prince Eomer.

“I can’t,” Boromir shivered. “Go on ahead. I’ll wait for you here.”

“Why can’t you?” He stepped into the cool building. “Would it help if we postponed this, did it later?”

Leave it to Faramir to keep the whole of the empire waiting while he found out what was wrong with his brother. Boromir had to laugh, but the sound wrenched as it emerged, hurting. Fingers spreading, Boromir pressed at the stone under his hand, wanting to absorb the inherent calm of the unmoving rock into himself. “I miss him.”

“Father?” Faramir’s tone was disbelieving.

“ARAGORN!” Swinging around, Boromir roared out the name, needing to hear the way it echoed up and down the hall of the dead. “ARAGORN!”

Faramir flinched away from the wails, frowning. “Not yet, Boromir. We’re not ready for him yet.”

Another chuckle tore out of Boromir’s throat. So the coronation, a thing the whole of the empire desired could be delayed on a whim, but Faramir would not rush this other part of the plan. “I slept away a good portion of two years… now I can’t manage to rest for longer than three hours at time. I’m tired, Faramir. I hurt all the time. My hands will sometimes shake for no reason. I can’t do everything I did before without gasping for air. It’s too loud here, too cold, too bright. The food makes me ill. I’m not the man I was two years ago. Everyone must see that.”

“No one expects you to fight a war within the next month, Boromir. You’ve time to find your stride again.” Faramir crossed the expanse between them. “Just by being here you’ve already inspired the army… and the people. I’m just the future king. Your name is the one being shouted from one neighbour to the next outside this tower… all through the land I suspect. I’ve heard it whispering all around me. Boromir is back. Boromir is supporting the new king. If Boromir says Faramir should be crowned then it must be all right.” His smile was self-deprecating. “Everyone adores you.”

“I’m tired, dear one.” It wasn’t the whole truth, but it was the best Boromir was able to articulate. “I feel brittle… like I’ve been turned inside out and shattered. I miss Aragorn.”

“Soon. I’ll call him soon,” Faramir appeased. “Just give me a few more days and I’ll call him.”

“He’s waiting on us. You promised.”

“And I WILL call him as soon as things settle into a normal pace. He’s lived for centuries, Boromir. I doubt he’s even noticed this small a bit of time.” Approaching cautiously, Faramir pulled Boromir into a careful embrace. “Mayhaps you could come stay in the royal suite tonight. I want you to see how it’s changed… that all sign of father is gone… that we’re making this place ours, not his.” Their foreheads touched. “I could do with some of your stories after all this time, Boromir. I missed you… every hour of every day.” As he spoke, Faramir shifted, putting them cheek to cheek. “I missed you beyond reason.”

“People will talk.” Boromir sighed, but there was a tone of indulgent surrender to the sound. He never could refuse Faramir anything.

“I spent two years chasing you down, brother mine, the act of a madman some might say. Nothing else could shock them more." Faramir petted golden-brown hair, twisting a tag of it around his fingers. “I need your company, Boromir. The king’s suite is never going to feel like home, not until you’ve spent time there, not until I can close my eyes and remember you laughing there. Come spend the night with me. Please.”

Those words sent an indecent shiver of sensation crawling up his spine, but Boromir couldn’t bring himself to refuse the request. Nodding his assent, Boromir turned them both in place. “There is a parade waiting on you, little brother. Let’s get that crown on your head.”

*

Counting heartbeats had given way to counting minutes, which had given way to counting hours. Aragorn couldn’t tolerate the thought that he might have to advance to days. Being still wasn’t calming him down; if anything it was making him even tenser. His muscles flat out refused to hold the pose any longer.

His icy shell cracked and fell away from his body as Aragorn rose out of the crouch he had held for three days. Something was twanging across his nerves. It wasn’t hunger. That would have been easy to appease. Sitting so quietly in the cold had completely blunted his appetites. That was the main reason Aragorn had chosen this retreat. The need that was upon him now was both more elusive and far stronger than simple hunger. It wasn’t a call from the royal family, although it had a similar flavour too it.

Stretching caused the last few flakes of ice to fall away from his body. A heavy exhale raised only the merest wisp of steam even in the chill atmosphere of Imladris. Aragorn’s body was almost as cold as the surrounding air. He had hoped the temperature would subdue his mind like it did his body, but that wasn’t working. Staying here was no longer an option.

The sensible thing would have been to go immediately to Dunland and seek out one of the villages that hosted a fair number of his son’s descendants. The urge to eat would be upon Aragorn as soon as he heated back up. Still, it was impossible to resist the path he chose. A single step took Aragorn to the foot of daunting murky-grey barrier that reached up into the sky. This wall, that only Aragorn could see, stretched out both ways as far as his eyes could see. The claimed boarders Gondor’s land might be just lines on a map, or rather flexible invisible boundaries to the people hereabouts, but to Aragorn they were as solid as the walls that surrounded Barad-dur.

Pressing an open hand to the barrier, Aragorn stretched out his senses for an echo of what had roused him a few moments ago but the odd vibration had vanished as quickly as it had startled him to complete awareness. Balling up his fist and hitting at the thing accomplished nothing. Aragorn couldn’t contain the ironic chuckle. He had held Faramir away from Boromir in such a similar manner only a short time ago. The chuckle turned into a strangled noise of frustration. Fear was quickly overrunning his thoughts. Aragorn realized that exactly the same activity as he had teased Faramir with might be playing out beyond his reach. Boromir’s adoration of his little brother was staggering in its intensity. Aragorn was certain that it would take only a little effort from the young king to seduce Boromir, and only a bit more effort to convince Boromir that everything he had felt while he’d been with Aragorn was nothing more than a trick on Aragorn’s part.

Falling in love not something he had ever allowed himself before Boromir. It ached, worse than anything had in all the long memories of his many hosts. Human memories were mercifully blunted by being drawn into the meld with Isildur’s many shells. In demon form he had taken countless bodies to bed but had never dared to grow attached to any of them. He had collected, kept, and played with countless men’s and women’s bodies since Isildur for periods of days, weeks or months, but eventually all of them were either discarded or died.

Lovers were another matter, one that had to be avoided at all costs. Lovers invariably recoiled in fear and disgust upon realizing what he was. Lovers left. It had happened every time the demon took over a new shell… family, friends and lovers of the human that he had been would always turn away, leaving the demon of Gondor alone.

“Bastards!” His hand hit the barrier in a fit of useless temper.

Aragorn should have known better. He should have refrained from immersing himself in Boromir’s sleeping mind and simply settled for the simple pleasures of the flesh but he hadn’t been able to resist. Eowyn had been right, but only to a point. It was Denethor’s soul’s influence that had drawn Aragorn into trying those first few dives into Boromir’s memories and dreams, but the feeling had been so vibrant that Aragorn hadn’t been able to resist repeating the experience again and again. By the time Aragorn had realized he was addicted, it was too late to stop. He’d fallen in love, much to his own horror.

“DAMN YOU. DAMN YOU BOTH!” Aragorn had absolutely no recourse against betrayal so long as no one invited him inside the boarders and brothers stayed safely within Gondor. If Faramir decided to abandon their bargain there was nothing Aragorn would be able to do about it.

There was a small settlement on the Harad Road that Aragorn frequented over the last age. Occasionally it would be swallowed up, concealed behind the shifting boundaries of Gondor, but not this year. Considering it’s proximity to the border, news of what was passing inside the empire could usually be heard there. Aragorn tried to groom a spy based out of this village every generation, for those times when invitations into Gondor weren’t coming often enough and he needed another way to be kept up to date. During Denethor’s reign, however, Aragorn had let the habit lapse. Reading everyone’s mind when he was called into Gondor to perform some task or another was far simpler than waiting on some skulker to slip and out of Gondor.

It was a small mercy that he didn’t have to walk up to the local bar-keep and demand ‘what news from Gondor?’ like a common tinker. Aragorn ghosted into the edges of the crowd, more shadow than substance, and began sifting through minds at random. The task was surprisingly fruitful in some ways. News of Faramir’s return to Minas Tirith was on almost every mind. There had been a very real threat that King Denethor might have grown weary of peace and set to expanding Gondor’s boarders south if he’d lived much longer. Faramir was thought to be the least hostile of Denethor’s sons. There was much jubilation in Harondor over Faramir’s scheduled coronation. The prospect of Prince Eomer taking the throne had been worrying the people of the south, especially since Eomer had just spent the last two years as part of the forces who had been manoeuvring in Ithilien.

Still, for all the plentiful thoughts of Gondor that were floating about the room, there was nothing substantial or specific. It was all rehashings of; Faramir is finally home and to be crowned immediately, Boromir ‘the disowned prince’ is acting as the new king’s captain, and, of course, there were a few speculations that old Denethor had been assassinated by one son or another. There was little to do with just Boromir, however, which was all Aragorn wanted to hear about right now.

The only bit of news that surprised Aragorn was of another sort entirely. It seemed that Denethor had barely been entombed before several southern families had sent representatives to Minas Tirith in expectation of the crowning of the new king… most with unmarried daughters in tow.

Aragorn withdrew from the tavern in a worse mood than when he’d entered it. Hunger was gnawing at him now he was warmed up and active. To hunt for food he would have to go north once more. Considering the distances involved, there would be nothing to feed his mind in that direction, only his body. The people of Dunland and Minhiriath purposefully avoided any contact with Gondor, still angry over the break between the line of Stewards and the original royal line an age ago.

Fingers flexing, Aragorn tried to recall any pockets of his descendants that had mixed with bloodlines which might have produced a tall blond, rather than the usual dark haired, lean-bodied men of the Dunedain. Perhaps finding a Boromir-substitute, seducing him and killing him afterward might ease his pain. Aragorn had grown too accustomed to drinking at the moment of orgasm. He ached for his lover, desperately wanting everything he had been getting from Boromir. It was going to be intolerably difficult to re-learn to feed off of strangers once again.

*

The scent of it had drawn Boromir half-way across the feasting hall. Some noble who had come up from Umbar weeks ago on a ship had brought cases of wine with him, along with piles of other luxuries. The wine in question was being offered up to anyone who cared to try a sample, only to earn wrinkled noses and semi-polite refusals of second cup. The rest of the crowd might not know why they found the drink distasteful, but Boromir realized immediately what had attracted him. There was a faint undertone of blood in the ruby-red wine.

Thrilled by Boromir’s show of interest, the Umbarian lord had quickly given Boromir several goblets of the drink. He had also provided two full bottles, and he had taken the opportunity to introduce the master of Gondor’s armies to his younger sister. The girl was persistent in her attention and it took Boromir most of an hour before he could escape.

Clutching the two black, glass bottles, Boromir attempted to find his way through the blur of colour and noise celebrating Faramir’s coronation. He wanted away from the press of crowds. Boromir wanted to take his newly found treasure high up the tower until he could find a place to safely drink himself the rest of the way into a stupor. The celebration was rather uncontained, however, it spread through the courtyard and several floors of the palace as well. Some rooms were harder to navigate than others. Whenever Boromir chanced upon a knot of soldiers or territory representatives he had to stop and attempt to be polite. Those sorts seemed to consider Boromir ‘their’ prince and they wanted to show it, usually with more wine and too-hard slaps on the back.

Boromir was almost free when a shout echoed up the stairway behind him. “Boromir!” It was the only voice that could stop him when he was this close to freedom.

“Boromir!” Faramir’s step was still surprisingly light considering the lateness of the hour and all he had gone through today. He caught up and tugged playfully at Boromir’s cape. “Have you had enough then? Are you ready to call it a night?” Noting Boromir’s grimace, Faramir caught his brother’s hand. “I have too.” Taking a couple steps, Faramir tugged. “I could do with the quiet of my suite. Come up with me.”

“Faramir…” Boromir held back, blinking to hold his focus on his brother’s face. The bottlenecks clutched in his other hand clinked. “Mayhaps another night would be better. I’ve drank far too much this evening. I would be pitiful company.”

“And yet you still wish to drink more…” Faramir teased, indicating the bottles his brother held. “I don’t recognize those label markings. You’ve made a discovery and I insist you let me share it with you.” Moving upward, Faramir tugged, pulling Boromir along behind him.

Weary of both thinking and struggling, Boromir let himself be led up the stairs. It wasn’t until he found himself right outside the door to the royal suite that Boromir’s heels dug in, halting them both. Eyes un-naturally wide, he stared about and his chest tightened up. The landing hadn’t changed. The doorway hadn’t changed. Every mark on the floor that Boromir recalled studying in fine detail remained the same.

“I don’t want to tonight. Don’t make me. Please. I’m tired. I don’t want to.” Breath racing, Boromir baulked about entering the rooms, although he didn’t dare struggle against the grip on his wrist. That was forbidden.

“Boromir… you’re cold.” A warm palm smoothed from Boromir’s forehead down to his cheek. “What’s wrong?”

His attention still fixed on the door, rather than the speaker, Boromir swallowed heavily. It wasn’t until a firm hand caught his chin and turned Boromir’s face that his gaze wavered. Blinking, he let out a surprised breath. “Faramir? What are you doing up here? Father will take a switch to your behind if he catches you up here.”

Faramir’s expression was bleak. “If he wasn’t dead… I’d kill him myself for what he did to you.” The threat sounded twice as chilling, coming out of Boromir’s sweet-tempered brother. “You should have told me.”

“You’re just a little boy,” Boromir countered in a tiny whisper. “I’m the oldest. I can handle Father. I’ll make sure he leaves you alone. It’s my job to take care of you.” Green eyes flicked nervously toward the stairs then back to the door. “Go downstairs, please Faramir. I’ll see to father.”

Faramir cursed vividly. Stretching, he threw open the doors without releasing his hold on Boromir. “He’s dead. He’s gone.” Tugging his brother after him, Faramir stepped into the room. “This is mine now. FATHER IS DEAD! Please, Boromir. I won’t stay here if you can’t walk in here without shivering. Shall I gut the tower and move the throne to Osgiliath or Linhir? I’ll do it, if that’s what you need,” he offered. “I need you with me. I’ll do anything I have to keep you at my side.”

It wasn’t just new furniture, or just the tapestries on the wall being changed, everything about the room was altered. The heavy, dark red and purple velvets had been removed and Denethor’s collection of ridiculously expensive decorations had vanished. Someone had seen to changing the entire feel of the room. It was all white, greens, and pale, lightweight wood.

“It’s another one of the things I suppose I have to give Eowyn credit for,” Faramir murmured quietly.

“He’s gone.” Boromir looked about in amazement. “He’s really gone.”

Faramir laughed. “The rest of the empire settles for seeing this damned crown on my head… but leave it to my brother to need to see that the royal suite has been redecorated.” He smiled and paced over to one set of wide doors on the far side of the sitting room. “Here too… the bedroom has been all fixed too. Will you look, Boromir?” Faramir opened the way. His tone dropped to a husky whisper. “Will you come into my bedroom, Boromir?”

Stomach clenching, Boromir turned to look in that direction. Faramir was a truly beautiful vision, standing in the half-open doorway with his arms wide. His tousled red-blond hair was held in place by a circlet of what looked like pure sunlight. His eyes were bright and inviting and his cheeks were tinted rose by emotion and the candlelight that lit up both the rooms. “Why?” The question whispered out of its own accord.

Faramir sighed, backing up. “Because you want to,” he answered after a moment. “I want you to… there’s nothing I want more in the entire world… but don’t, not because of that. Only come in here if you want to, Boromir. I’ll understand if you don’t.”

“We’re not going to do anything,” Boromir qualified, even as he edged into the portal that had once terrified him.

“I’m not asking for anything except your company, Boromir.”

Nodding, Boromir entered. The bottles in his hand were set carefully on a nearby table then he turned to close and lock the doors, driven by years of training.

“It really is an amazing room.” Faramir paced around, his fingers brushed shutter after shutter, pointing out the lavish multitude of windows. “It’s the biggest bedroom I’ve ever been inside.” He avoided the bed even as he circled around it.

Boromir, in contrast, walked right over. “Mercy…” His hand wrapped around one spindled poster, practically caressing the wood. “Do you remember it? This is mama’s, Faramir. It’s the bed out of mama’s old room.” Boromir couldn’t help but smile. He had asked father about the set once and had been told it had been sent away. Curiosity prompted him and Boromir gave into the urge to jump into the middle of it, testing to see if the bed felt how he remembered it. True to his memories, the mattress welcomed him with unbelievable softness.

Flinging his arms out to either side, Boromir let his body go limp. “This was the best place in all of Gondor,” he mused aloud. “There’d be quilts heaped around us in the middle of winter and all three of us would curl up here with warm cider and cookies.” Boromir smiled. “In the summer, Mama’s bed was covered with silk and a breeze was always blowing in the window. Mama would talk about the sea… and rub powder over your back when the heat made you cranky.” His eyes closed and a frown creased his expression. “You were born in this bed, Faramir. It disappeared while mama was down in the house of healing. I know. I snuck into her room the day after she died and it was already empty and getting cleaned.”

“That was a long time ago, Boromir.” The mattress jostled slightly as Faramir climbed onto the bed with his brother. “A lifetime ago.” Moving with almost painful care, Faramir crawled up the bed until he was beside Boromir. “I have trouble remembering her sometimes… but you’re everywhere. You were always there.”

Boromir sighed. “You were mine. Mama was too tired to hold you when you were first born. She told the ladies to give you to me. They said I was too small, but mama insisted. She knew I’d be careful with you, that I’d take care of you… always.”

“You did, Boromir. Now it’s my turn.” Reclining, Faramir rested his head on his brother’s shoulder. The mithril circlet was gone and his hair fanned freely. Draping an arm over Boromir, Faramir rested his open hand over his brother’s heart. “I love you. I’ve always loved you.”

Turning his head was a lazy movement that felt like it took ages to complete. Boromir pressed a kiss into the untidy waves of hair. “I love you too.” When Faramir’s touch began to inch slowly downward, Boromir felt each slight movement in perfect detail, even through three layers of cloth. He opened his mouth, meaning to protest the un-brotherly caress, but Faramir’s head tipped at just that moment and Boromir found his lips moving against Faramir’s brow.

“I know we’re all tangled together… and I know it can’t stay this way,” Faramir whispered. “But it’s just for a little while. After all we’ve been through, we can spare just a little time before we take up the weight of the empire.” His fingers petted gently.

“Faramir…” Boromir’s one arm tightened, holding the other man against him. “We shouldn’t do…OH! Faramir!” A firm hand cupping Boromir’s groin stole away any objection and all rational thought. The much beloved body in his arms wriggled and Faramir’s mouth captured Boromir’s in a heated kiss. Wrapping both his arms tight around Faramir, Boromir rolled onto his side so he could hug him close. The hug gradually turned into an aching grind of body against body.

Faint whimpers escaped Boromir’s throat, but he held the kiss. As long as he concentrated on the kiss, then Boromir could convince himself to ignore the fingers plucking at the clasps of his vest. When cloth was pulled open and peeled away from burning skin, Boromir just squeezed his eyes more tightly closed and sucked at Faramir’s lower lip. Faramir’s taste was wonderfully unique, with an undertone of honey. Boromir happily lost himself in the gentle haze. It was all too easy to yield and flow under Faramir’s hands. He didn’t have to own up to the fact that he had been the one to toe off his short boots, it was just part of the mist they were floating in. The gradual disappearance of his breeches could be written off as more of the same magic.

“Boromir…” The name was gasped out when Faramir broke off to gasp for air. “Oh, Boromir. I…”

“Shh…” Fingers pressed to rapidly bruising lips.

A shaking breath exhaled against Boromir’s skin, but Faramir submitted to the request for silence for a time. His attention dropped and he set to tracing down Boromir’s throat with his open mouth. Boromir’s open vest was pushed back and off, to be lost in the tangle of sheets. His elaborately decorated court tunic and simpler chemise were caught and dragged the rest of the way up until they were pushed up and off.

Faramir let out a faint noise of distress. As Faramir kissed each one of the bite marks still showing on Boromir’s body the skin tingled in response and he lifted into the contact. Breathless, almost pleading, gasps accompanied each twist of Boromir’s body. When Faramir drew back to tear at his own complex outfit, Boromir whined. The word ‘please’ seemed to form on his lips, but it wasn’t given voice.

“Damn thing!” Faramir couldn’t contain a small curse as material tore and he finally able to fling the top half of his outfit to the floor. The bottoms would have been easier if he’d remembered to get rid of his boots first, but eventually Faramir’s body was bared. Falling forward onto his hands and knees, he stopped, poised above Boromir. “Open your eyes, Boromir. Please. Open your eyes and look at me. I need to know you see me.”

Boromir inhaled deeply, bracing himself, not certain how his body would react if he forced himself to acknowledge what was happening… and with whom. The vision he was gifted with when he finally managed to look up was breathtaking. Faramir was smiling sweetly enough to break Boromir’s heart. He was gilded by candlelight and looking every bit a vision from a dream come to life. “Faramir,” the name whispered out. He might have given voice to the most profound endearment known to man, considering the way Faramir’s expression lit up.

“You know it’s me.” Still smiling, Faramir lowered himself cautiously, dropping his mouth to Boromir’s quivering chest, while allowing a single hand to skim down and warily stroke the silky skin of Boromir’s shaft.

“Yes… oh, Faramir.” Boromir couldn’t keep from threading his fingers into his brother’s tangled hair. He moaned and twisted as Faramir planted damp kisses all over his chest while gentle fingers toyed with his hardening erection. Hot breath tickled and Boromir’s nipples peaked. Half-expecting to be bitten, Boromir found the eager suction that closed over each in turn was just as staggering.

Too soon and not nearly soon enough, Faramir’s mouth dragged lower. By the time Boromir could feel Faramir’s unsteady exhalations over the head of his cock a continuous moan was rumbling through him. It seemed impossible that his sweet brother was about to do it, but a moment later, Faramir’s mouth closed over stiff, straining flesh. Boromir’s head slammed back into the mattress and he arched up into that wonderful sensation. Shudders wracked through him.

The suckling was messy, and quite unskilled. Small rivulets of moisture ran down, soaking the expensive sheets, and tormenting the skin it tickled across. Faramir’s obvious delight in the act more than made up for his messiness. His tongue moved with care, finding every sensitive spot and letting Boromir’s shivers and groans guide him.

Faramir shifted lower and his other hand was freed. Those fingers traced worshipfully over the curve of Boromir’s hip, over his thigh and teased down the crease of his leg to brush Boromir’s sack. Instinctively, Boromir parted his legs, pulling them up slightly at the same time. His heels dug in as a finger tickled back further so he could tilt his hips up in offering. All movement from Faramir ceased except the barest rub of his fingertip.

Breathing shallowly, Faramir lifted his mouth slowly, sucking gently as he pulled off. A barely bearded cheek rubbed at the inside of Boromir’s leg. “Should I?” The finger pressed just a small bit, easing into the crease of Boromir’s rear.

“Faramir.” Boromir’s fingers tightened in his brother’s hair. His body rocked slightly.

“Tell me if it’s what you want. This is only about what you want,” the plea was puffed against tender flesh.

“But do you want to?” Boromir hissed. “Tell me. Do you want to?”

An open mouth pressed to the skin on the inside of Boromir’s leg. Faramir nuzzled, groaning. His finger dared a little further. His voice was meek when it finally emerged. “Only if you want it,” Faramir whispered from between Boromir’s widely parted legs.

“Do you want me like that, Faramir?” Boromir persisted. “You don’t have to ask. You could just take it, just have at me… maybe if you don’t say it then it’s not real. Maybe it would be better that way.” His head was spinning and something deep in his chest ached.

“I want…” Faramir lifted his face. His chin was gleaming. “I want everything… everything you’ll let me have… but I don’t know how.”

A long exhale quaked Boromir. “Come here, come up here.” Even as Faramir crawled up his body, Boromir shifted to wrap his legs around the lean form. He cradled Faramir against him, bending with a flexibility that spending two years do little else but having sex had gifted him with.

“Don’t we need something?” Faramir’s inquiry was strained.

“Not if you go slowly. Not if you’re careful.” One heel hooked into the small of Faramir’s back. Boromir’s other leg was bent up and out in a position that might have been painful if Boromir was completely sober. Both of them were breathing shallow and fast. “Do it, Faramir. Push into me. It’s all right.”

Faramir whimpered and trembled. A dull pressure, that seemed far too high at first, made Boromir squirm. The breach, when it came was like a flash of lightning tearing through Boromir’s body. He had to fight to keep from tensing up, to keep from either dragging Faramir hard against himself, or shoving him violently away.

“Slowly. Slowly.” The caution was only the tiniest puff of sound but Faramir seemed to hear it. The long, measured slide that followed had both of them panting and sweating before it was half over. When Faramir’s hips finally drew flush with the curve of his ass, Boromir groaned and dug his fingers into Faramir’s upper arms. There was a truly terrifying aptness to the moment even though Boromir was certain no one in the world would understand.

Faramir’s face was shining with moisture and he looked as though he’d been cut to the core by a burning blade. Boromir saw wonder, a pleasure so intense it must hurt, and strain on the face above him.

“I’m fine. It’s good, Faramir. It’s right.” The assurances were cooed out. A shiver quaked through Boromir. “Pull back, love, just a little and then push again.”

An unclassifiable sound accompanied the small movement. Faramir’s whole body shook. Boromir tightened the leg he had wrapped around Faramir’s hips and rocked against the slight thrust.

“More.”

That simple word seemed to shock vividly through Faramir. Gaining confidence with each small jolt, it wasn’t too very long before he was throwing his entire body into each thrust of his hips. Boromir’s clutching hands fell away after a time, thrown wide. His shoulders shoved against the mattress and he groaned constantly, a pleading, needy sound. In the impossible ‘now’ of sex, Boromir wasn’t certain how long their bodies crashed against each other. He wasn’t even sure when desperate, constantly growing need tipped into the blaze of a long, wracking orgasm… but it did. Just when Boromir thought he might burst into flames from an overabundance of sensation, Faramir stiffened, nearly screamed and all but burrowed inside Boromir with each of his final stabs.

The tremors of coming down had their own special pleasure to them, as well. Holding Faramir tight in his arms while both of them shook and tried to catch their breaths was intoxicating. It seemed every second breath out of Faramir was a meltingly sweet “I love you”. Snuggled tight up against Faramir, his body heavy with satisfaction, Boromir drifted off into dreams the like of which he hadn’t had in years.

*

Eowyn sat cross-legged on Eomer’s bed, watching her brother strip out of his elaborate court gear. “Faramir has put a lock on the library door so I can’t get into the mirror room,” she announced in a pouting tone. “He’s barred me from the Tower archives, as well. The scholars down there told me they were under orders to call the guard if I wouldn’t leave.”

“And what does it say about how far Faramir can trust you, if you already know those things?” Eomer tossed his clothes on to a chair.

“It’s not fair,” Eowyn complained. She realized she sounded like a petulant child, but she couldn’t help her contain the whine that crept into her voice. “I only made a single, trifling mistake, and in the end everything has worked out all right… all of it in his favour too. I thought better of Faramir. I thought he loved me.”

“You tried to kill the one person he loves best in the entire world, Eowyn.” His expression was tight but he didn’t sound angry, merely weary. “I know that if someone had done to you… what you meant to do to Boromir… I would have torn them limb from limb and thrown the scraps into the animal pens.” Kneeling on the edge of the bed, clad only in thin leggings, Eomer was a striking vision. “Give him a little time and Faramir might lessen the restrictions on you, Eowyn. Give him a little time to get past the betrayal and realize that it all worked out for the best.”

“All sorts of people kept asking me why I wasn’t in the procession,” she shifted the topic only slightly. “I’m sure they knew. They were just being nasty. Gloating over me, mocking me.” Eowyn sneered. “I pretended I hadn’t gone because I was feeling poorly before the procession left the Tower. If Faramir isn’t going to come out and announce what he’s done to me... well, I’m not about to make it any easier for him to just deny me into oblivion.” The White Tower had been empty for hours, a situation Eowyn had attempted to use to her advantage without success. It seemed everyone had heard rumours of her disinheritance even though it hadn’t been officially announced. Most of her old allies had distanced themselves while they waited to see what would happen.

“The coronation was uneventful and the party was horrendous,” Eomer consoled. “We can leave for the Riddermark in just a few days. Once we’re gone, we can put everything here behind us. Faramir is giving me full control of the Riddermark. He promised that he’ll see to severing it from Gondor completely later on. We’re just waiting on the clerks to finish writing up the papers that name me the ruler of that part of the empire. I’ll need legal proclamations of my power so none of the idiots there will dispute my authority.” Climbing the rest of the way onto the bed, Eomer stretched out and urged his sister to lie down beside him. “We’re going home, Eowyn. It’s what we always wanted. None of the rest matters.”

She was stiff and unyielding in his arms. Eomer was treating her like a child, something he hadn’t done in years. It infuriated Eowyn, provoking her into lashing out at him. “And are you bringing a wife with you or are you waiting to pick one out when we get to Edoras?”

“Eowyn…”

“I’m told that the young lord of Dol Amroth is insistent that either you or Faramir should make a bride of his sister, Lothiriel,” she stated coolly. “The council agrees. They want the remaining prince to marry one of the Harondorian girls in hopes it will improve Gondor’s relations with the south.” Eowyn laughed bitterly as she shared the information that skulking behind draperies had earned her. “I may not have been welcome downstairs, but I still managed to hear things.”

“Eowyn…”

“Not that Faramir cares which of those silly girls you take and which he gets. He can’t see past bedding Boromir.” She pushed up onto one elbow, frowning at her brother. “They’re up there right now. I just know it. Faramir is accusing me of acting like Denethor, using that argument as justification to ruin me, but he’s the one acting like father. He’s obsessing over Boromir, disregarding everything for his turn to plough into Boromir’s well-used arse.”

“EOWYN! That’s enough!” Eomer pushed at her supporting elbow, knocking her down to the mattress. Rolling, he pinned his sister beneath his body. “You have to let it go, my love, or it will consume you from the inside out. We’ve got each other. We’ve got the Riddermark back. Nothing else matters.”

Gentle fingers threaded through Eomer’s long, softly falling hair. “But Faramir was supposed to be our’s too. I can see every detail of it in my head. The way it would have felt when he parted my legs and took my virginity. The look on Faramir’s face when he felt your fingers pushing into him, warning him that you would have him, even as he took me. The groan you wouldn’t be able to contain as you shoved ‘this’ inside our sweet, Faramir’s body.” Eowyn reached down and cupped the front of Eomer’s leggings.

The action earned a moan from Eomer. “Tease!” He moved quickly, grabbing after the hem of Eowyn’s nightshirt and shoving it up to bare her to the waist. “You tease me… taunt me at every turn.” Eomer buried his face in the curve of her throat, licking the hollow. His fingers curled, dipping between folds of down-covered skin to just barely graze Eowyn’s core. “Eowyn!” He gasped, rubbing his crotch against her leg, held away by only a thin layer of cloth.

“I know what you want, love,” Eowyn whispered seductively. “You want to pull off your pants and feel me, skin to skin. You want inside me so badly that it feels like dying.”

“Eowyn, please. I love you. I love you so much. Please.” Breath catching, he whimpered against her throat. “I’ll be careful. You’ll like it. Please, love.” Her one leg was teasing behind him and the heat between them burned higher.

“You want me the same way Faramir is likely having at his whore of a brother right now. Could you even last that long, my love? Or would it spill all over my thighs at the first touch?” Eowyn wriggled underneath Eomer, parting her legs wider in appreciation of the feelings that Eomer’s tickling fingers were provoking.

“Please, love. There’s no reason to wait any more. Please, Eowyn.”

Eowyn shivered. “It’s not like I can be disgraced any more than I am now, is it? It’s not like having a baby and being unable to name the father could make things worse.” Her hands skimmed up and over Eomer’s back, then down again. “Yes, fine. Take me, Eomer.” Eowyn plucked at his waistband. “Get these off. Take them down, love, and make a woman of me.”

Just hearing the words proved too much for Eomer. He shuddered, grabbing tightly, and spent himself against Eowyn’s leg.

Eomer cursed between panting breaths. “I’m sorry, Eowyn. I’m sorry.”

“Hush, love. It’s all right.” Curling, she managed to kiss his tangled hair. “We’ve time.” Legs spreading wantonly, Eowyn pushed down on his shoulders and head. “I’m burning up, love. Will you do that thing… with your tongue, before the back of my head explodes? Fix it, Eomer. Lick me down there, please… then we can try again.” She twisted underneath him, her hips shifting in invitation. “You can get hard again. I know you can.”

“I can. I will.”

Eowyn felt him nodding against skin as Eomer worked his way down her body. The material of her thin, sweaty, nightgown was torn open to bare her entirely. A hand cupped each of her small breasts and Eomer’s mouth latched onto the nipple, sucking hard. Squeezing her eyes shut and letting her thinking-mind fade away, Eowyn was almost able to imagine it wasn’t just Eomer, but two eager men sharing her between them, and that would have to suffice for now.

*

Boromir awoke knowing that he was being studied. Faramir’s gaze had weight to it. He could feel it like the sun shining on his skin.

“Don’t wake up yet,” Faramir requested in a faint whisper. “It’s not over until you wake up.” Fingertips trailed across Boromir’s closed eyes before sweeping over every feature. “I just need time to save this. I never want to forget.” Faramir’s lips brushed Boromir’s left shoulder before drifting lower. “Last night was extraordinary, but I need this too. I need to be able to picture you sleeping next to me.”

It was a simple request to indulge. Boromir let himself drift a while longer, happy enough to delay leaving the comfort of Faramir’s company to face all the tasks waiting on them. He hadn’t felt this completely comfortable since Aragorn had admitted to the two year gap in time.

“Aragorn!” Boromir sat up abruptly, nearly knocking his brother over with the sudden movement.

“Soon,” Faramir soothed. “Perhaps after Eomer is gone...” Unspoken was the fact that Eowyn would be leaving with her full-brother. “I’m uncertain if he should be here, if he should be privy to the ritual or if I should wait until he has left for Edoras.”

“That will be days,” Boromir objected. “Maybe weeks if something were to go wrong. Months even… if Elphir has his way and Eomer agrees to marry Lothiriel. Elphir will want to attend the wedding, and then he’ll need to see to her happiness before they all leave.” His head shook. “We can’t make Aragorn wait that long, especially without explaining why. He’s likely already worried.”

Faramir picked at the hem of the sheet he was tangled in. “There’s just some things I have to check in the book. There’s something he mentioned in passing that I need to confirm.”

“You can ask him about it after you call him,” Boromir reasoned. “It has to be you, Faramir. You and Eomer are the only ones who can right now. It’s not like I can go and find him either… he could be anywhere.” A hint of darkness shadowed Boromir’s eyes. “You are going to call him, Faramir, aren’t you? You promised.”

“I will…” Faramir confirmed in a low tone.

Shrugging free of the covers that were dragging at him, Boromir crawled around to sit tight against Faramir, wrapping his arms around him. “It’s not like Aragorn will change what’s here between us, Faramir. You have been the dearest thing in my heart from the moment the midwife set you in my arms.” His chin rested on Faramir’s shoulder. “I understood that as long as you don’t dismiss him after you call him, then we can all be together. Isn’t that what was decided on… that you’ll grant him leave to stay in Gondor with us?” Boromir had been less than attentive while Aragorn had spoken to Faramir of rules and terms of service. His own thoughts at that time had been muddled by the realization that Aragorn had deceived him. Boromir’s anger had taken several hours to ease and he had missed a lot of information that now concerned him. “Tell me, Faramir.”

“I’m supposed to summon Aragorn,” Faramir began. He leaned into the offered embrace, raising one hand to reach back and cup Boromir’s cheek. “Once he’s here I’m to grant him free access to all of Gondor for the extent of my lifetime… even when he’s not on business for me.”

Boromir kissed at the curve of Faramir’s ear. “You’re thinking of changing the deal, aren’t you?” The question was cautious. “It wouldn’t be fair. It wouldn’t be like you to cheat, Faramir. You’re better than that.”

“It’s not what you’re thinking.” Fingers tightened in Boromir’s hair. “He mentioned something. I want to check that book he told me about… to get the details of it.”

“What ‘something’?” Boromir persisted.

Faramir didn’t answer. Instead he twisted, turning around in Boromir’s arms until they were face to face. “Do you love him, Boromir?” Blue eyes locked to green. “Is he the one you want to spend the rest of your life with?”

Boromir stared right back. “I won’t forsake you for him. You don’t need to worry about that, Faramir. I won’t forget Gondor or my duties.” He paused. “But yes… I need Aragorn.”

“Is it the magic?” Faramir pressed. “What if he was just an ordinary man?”

“Make yourself plain, Faramir. Your leaps of imagination have always dizzied me and I’m not up to the game right now.”

Frowning, Faramir spoke slowly. “I can call him, give him the freedom of Gondor and dare the dangerous path that father and Eowyn failed to resist… the lure of using him too often. It would be all too easy to succumb, with Aragorn so near at hand and so powerful.” Fingers petted restlessly at Boromir’s bare arms. “That terrifies me on every level… that I might become like father, that I might rely on Aragorn’s power instead of myself… and also…” His voice faltered. “…that I would have to compete for your affections with a creature I can’t hope to match.”

“It’s not a competition, little one. I will always love you.”

Pushing on, Faramir rushed out the next sentence. “Or I could give you an ordinary man,” he offered. “Just now, just at the beginning I have the option of freeing Aragorn. I can dissolve the bindings that hold him to the throne of Gondor. It will make him mortal, Boromir, and it will strip him of his magic.”

Boromir tensed. “Will it hurt him? Will he still be Aragorn… or will he become Isildur once again? Will he die?”

“All of us are going to die eventually,” Faramir reasoned. “He’ll age, just like us and someday he will die, just like us. As for the rest… I think he will remain Aragorn, but I want to check the histories and see what they say.” His thumb rubbed at Boromir’s wrist. “Would you still want him if that were the way of things… if he were mortal and his powers were gone?”

“I wouldn’t dare to make a choice like that on Aragorn’s behalf. You should ask him.”

“I’m not asking you to choose the path before me. What I need to know is if it’s the demon of Gondor… or simply Aragorn… that you love?” Faramir pressed.

The taste of blood lingered in Boromir’s thoughts, suggesting that his next words might be a lie, but he spoke them anyway. “It’s Aragorn. Give HIM the choice, but I want him no matter which he chooses.”

Faramir’s head shook. “No. This choice is mine, Boromir. I dare not risk the temptation that he represents. I will give you a man, not a demon.” Faramir’s hand encircled his brother’s wrist. “I am the king. This is my choice.”

“But he might not want that. How can you excuse this injustice?”

“I can not allow myself to be persuaded by another in this matter. Will you argue my decision? Do you choose to argue with the king?”

“I am allowed to argue with my brother.” Boromir’s temper was rising.

Faramir sighed. “So now is the time for your choice, Boromir.” His entire body tensed up. “Which am I first… your king, or your little brother? You have to decide. Will you and your lover stay and serve Gondor, or will you take him and leave now that you realize how it has to be?”

“I swore allegiance to you yesterday,” Boromir began. “Everyone did, but it was mere ceremony to most of them. You must realize that. You’ll have to win them all over, one at a time. It might take years.” He frowned. “But never doubt me, my king. I meant every word I spoke while kneeling at your feet.”

“And if Aragorn is angry at the return of his mortality and tells you to choose between him and your oath?”

“You’re borrowing trouble again, Faramir. You’re over-thinking what ‘may be’… as has always been your habit. Do what you have to.” Boromir leaned in to touch their foreheads together. “I would not survive seeing you turn into father. If removing the temptation that Aragorn’s powers represent protects you from that fate… then you must do it for the good of the entire empire.”

Faramir practically melted into Boromir’s arms. “I’ll call him tomorrow, I promise. Just give me this one day. There are a few things dragging at me. I have to make certain of what I’m doing about the release. I need to straighten things out with Eomer. I’m under an obligation to propose a marriage as well.” He held tight. “I just want to know I have one more night with you at the end of this hateful day… then I’ll call him in the morning. I promise.”

Squeezing Faramir close, Boromir nodded. “One more night.”

*

The woman tucked under the furs in the corner of the hut was typical of the local stock. She was dark-eyed, dark-haired and leanly muscled. If Aragorn couldn’t have what he wanted, he wanted to avoid any possible reminder of his grievous loss. He had squeezed soft breasts while burying both his teeth and his erection into the woman below him, hoping it would dull the ache inside of him.

Leaving her to sleep and recover, and needing to be gone before her sons returned from the hunt, Aragorn slipped out into the gathering twilight. Another long night was upon him and Aragorn was unsure how to spend the time now he’d slaked his hunger. Perhaps it was time to set up a new home. That would distract him for several days. He didn’t wish to go back to Barad-dur, not in this generation. Setting up a small cottage deep in the forest of Mirkwood with a few new hobbits, girls this time, might work as a diversion.

Aragorn was just turning to explore the depths of that tangled woodland when a strong tug at his innards turned him another way completely. Without even properly realizing that he had changed direction, Aragorn’s next step deposited him in absolute centre of the White Tower’s primary training ring.

Faramir closed the heavy book he held with a forceful thud and dropped the volume into the sandy dirt at his feet. The noise was clearly intended to catch and hold Aragorn’s attention, perhaps to keep him from immediately going on the offensive. Alone, the odd action would have meant nothing but Aragorn couldn’t help but find the company Faramir was keeping disconcerting. Boromir, he had expected, but seeing Eomer and Minas Tirith’s senior arms master, Melador, in attendance… all three of whom were suited up in full gear, was more than a little disturbing.

“Do it quickly,” Boromir’s whispered urging sounded sorrowful.

“I, Faramir, son of Denethor, king of Gondor have summoned you, Aragorn, vessel of Isildur, slave of Gondor.”

“What are you playing at, child?” Aragorn snapped.

“By the power granted to me as scion of the line of Hurin… I release you from your service to the throne of Gondor forever. Take your mortality back, Aragorn son of Arathorn, and be free.”

Aragorn opened his mouth to snarl at the presumptuous boy, but all the air in his chest vanished. Aragorn tried to extend his senses and peruse Faramir’s mind to discover what sort of foolishness he was up to, but a strange sense of vertigo seized him. Through the haze that was fast overtaking Aragorn’s senses he saw Boromir start to step forward only to have his path blocked by Faramir’s gauntlet encased arm.

“YOU SAID IT WOULDN’T HURT HIM!” The scream seemed impossibly far away.

“I said it wouldn’t kill him.” Faramir’s counter-argument was even harder to hear. “I don’t know everything that’s going to happen. That’s why Eomer and Melador are here.”

Aragorn had numerous vague memories of vomiting from the mortal lifetimes of his many bodies, but none of those distant recollections compared to what was happening to him now. His body felt like it was trying to turn itself inside out and tear out of his mouth, from his toes upward. There was a sharp pain radiating from his knees, where they had hit the gravel and his body felt as if it suddenly weighted five times as much as it had just moments ago.

“He’s going to be sick, I expect.” The voice was unfamiliar. “Shall I fetch him some water?”

“Keep back from him!” Faramir snapped. “The book couldn’t tell me everything. It just hinted. They were just guesses.”

“NO! Something’s wrong! ARAGORN!”

Boromir sounded genuinely worried, Aragorn realized in the smallest part of his mind that was still functioning. There was a muffled thud and the spray of disarranged sand and gravel. Aragorn quite wanted to look over and see who had managed to tackle Boromir down, but the next moment was complete chaos as Aragorn’s body went into convulsions. Every bit of life-force that he had absorbed over an entire age tore out of him at the exact same moment. Pure light ripped up from inside him and sprayed into the sky. Pieces of past kings and their heirs, both big and small, and every soul from Isildur to Argonui, who’s bodies had played host to the demon of Gondor, all ruptured out of Aragorn’s body in the same instant and whirled about in a storm that would have put a tornado to shame.

“Eowyn!” Eomer’s tone was strained, but reverent.

“Father,” Boromir’s exclamation was punctuated by a pained gasp.

Collapsing into the dirt, Aragorn, who had been able to alter the very fabric of the world a few moment ago, couldn’t even summon the strength to roll over so the gravel wasn’t cutting into his cheek. The darkness behind his eyes was overwhelming and Aragorn couldn’t recall ever having been so weary, even back when he had been a mere mortal. He actually wanted to sleep.

“Let me go!” More scuffling in the dirt preceded the crunch of gravel as someone approached.

“Be careful!”

“He’s hurt. He may be dying. You were wrong. You’ve killed him!”

“Boromir, you’re bleeding. Let me help.”

The voices cut like knives, stabbing into Aragorn’s skull. He was lifted and turned, gently enough, but it still made him moan with agony. Steel slid out of a scabbard not too very far away.

“I’ve got his back your majesty.”

Painful hot fingers ran over Aragorn’s face and he was pulled tight against silk and chain mail. “I’m sorry, Aragorn. I’m so sorry.”

“Is he breathing?”

Damn them, but couldn’t they all be silent and let him die in peace, Aragorn thought.

“He’s cold. Cold as a corpse.” The arms holding him squeezed tighter.

“Melador! Fetch a litter and some bearers. Eomer, fetch a healer.” Faramir snapped out from close at hand. “I’m sorry. I’ll fix this, Boromir. We won’t lose him.”

Unwilling to listen to any more, Aragorn let the darkness of sleep take him for the first time since he’d lost his soul to the demon.

*

Boromir lay on the bed beside Aragorn’s still form. Fingers brushed dark hair back from Aragorn’s forehead in a restless motion. It was strange. Boromir had never been awake beside his sleeping lover. He wasn’t even certain that Aragorn ever slept before this.

“I wish you would let the healers take a look at you too,” Faramir said softly from his place at the foot of the bed. “I saw that… thing… blow through you.” His expression was anxious. He paced closer to the head of the bed. “It looked like it hurt. It gave you a nose bleed.” The misty form had blasted Boromir flat to the ground when it hit him.

Boromir and Eomer had been the only ones touched by the power that had rushed out of Aragorn but it had affected them both in very different ways. Soft wind had curled around Eomer, lifting his hair and turning him slightly in place. The force that had knocked Boromir down had been considerably more violent.

“It was nothing,” Boromir’s tone was dismissive. His head didn’t lift, since he was concentrating on Aragorn’s still face. “For just a moment I could have sworn that father was there, that he was touching me, holding me down. It startled me, that’s all.”

There was an edge of a lie to the words, but Faramir let it slip past. “Near as I can tell… as I can guess…” Faramir corrected himself. “It was the portions of the souls that Isildur’s vessels had absorbed since his creation. I think those fragments hurled out… trying to find and rejoin with their original selves, maybe not realizing how much time had passed. Eomer sent word that something knocked Eowyn across the room and into a wall. She’s feverish and talking in her sleep right now.” Faramir frowned, not really wanting to discuss their half-sister, but needing to use her as an example. “I can only hope that the rest of the spirits found their way. I wonder if, where-ever he is… if father has finally realized what he did was wrong… and if he’s finally sorry.”

“I doubt it. He didn’t feel sorry,” he mumbled. Boromir didn’t look up. His entire concentration remained on Aragorn. “I’m afraid, Faramir.” Fingers caressed cool skin. “What if it all left? What if what makes him Aragorn has flown away too and gotten lost? What if there’s nothing left inside him now? He’s so still.”

“He’s breathing. His heart is beating,” Faramir repeated what the healers had told them earlier. “Give it time. He’s just suffered a distressing upset. Maybe it’s just taking a little time. He may still recover himself.” Moving tentatively, Faramir risked running a hand down Boromir’s shoulder, offering comfort. “I’m sorry. I wish it could’ve been different. I wish I had dared to leave him intact, but I’m afraid it would have been too tempting to use him. I didn’t have the courage.”

“We’ve done this, Faramir. I told you I understood. I’m just… our last parting was strained, then we made him wait so long, then we cornered him and he looked so… betrayed. He might die, not realizing what he means to me.”

Sighing, Faramir drew back. “Why don’t you strip out of your gear and lay down with him, Boromir. There’s a soldier just outside. You can call him if you need anything.” They were in the heir’s suite, which Faramir had insisted Boromir re-inhabit. “I should… I’ll be upstairs if you need me.”

Weary green eyes finally lifted enough to look at Faramir’s face. “You could stay,” Boromir suggested as he sat up. “If you want to.”

Faramir’s gut tightened. “Are you sure? This is all my fault. I know you’re angry at me.”

Head shaking, Boromir rose wearily to his feet and plucked open the clasps that allowed his leather surcoat to be shrugged off. “I’m not angry at you, Faramir. Your reasons were sound.” Handfuls of silk were grabbed and Boromir yanked his shirt off over his head rather than struggle with it, throwing it over to land in a pile with his gloves, weapons, and armour. “Just when I thought I could have everything… I should have known better. I got greedy.” He listed slightly, threatening to fall, when he bent to work at his tall boots.

“Sit down.” Faramir knelt down to deal with the tight, heavy-weight leather. “He’ll come back to you. I know he will. I saw. He loves you. He’ll do everything to come back to you, to be with you. You inspire that in people, Boromir. The better someone knows you, the more essential you become to them. I know that.” Faramir urged his brother to stand briefly so he could finish stripping him down. Grabbing a side of the covers, Faramir held them back. “Get in. Hold him tight. He’ll come back for you if it’s at all possible. I just know it.” Turning away to get out of his own gear, Faramir mumbled, “I would.”

Stopping at his leggings, Faramir stood a moment, uncertain what to do next. Huffing out a long breath, he finally walked around to the far side of the wide bed and crawled in on the other side of Aragorn’s body. “Talk to me, Boromir. Tell me everything you remember of the time you spent with him.” Faramir didn’t really want to hear about any of it, but those tales were the most likely lure he could think of, and sharing the remembrances would soothe Boromir.

“Only if you come closer,” Boromir bargained. He snuggled himself up to Aragorn’s left side and reached across after Faramir’s hand.

The first contact made Faramir shiver. Aragorn’s cool form was a shock against the length of his own body, but Boromir’s fingers were warm. “I’m here.” Arranging himself, Faramir hooked a leg over so his toes touched his brother’s.

A long pause preceded Boromir’s first words, as if he was deciding on a safe place to begin. “I saw Imladris. Aragorn took me there. It was cold and snowy, but beautiful.”

*

Aragorn became aware of heat before anything else. Warm flesh surrounded him. Soft hair tickled his nose. Arms were wrapped around Aragorn’s body from both directions and so were legs. Moist breath was gusting against one of Aragorn’s ears on the left, while on his right he could feel the steady, gentle rise and fall of a chest against his ribs.

Opening his eyes lazily, Aragorn tried to discern his situation without betraying his awareness. The room was one he’d never seen before. It was dimly illuminated by a night-lamp and a gutting fire. The room seemed rich enough. The bedspread was an expensive-looking crimson and gold and an array of exotic weapons glinted in the low light, decorated the walls. White stone gleamed dully between tapestries and draperies, suggesting he was in the Tower of Ecthelion.

Quick on the heels of sight, came the realization that even though there were two people in the bed with him, Aragorn couldn’t read the mind of either one of them when he probed for information about what had happened and where he was. Tensing up at that discovery, Aragorn threw his senses wider, without any better result. He couldn’t feel the thoughts of anyone, anywhere.

“Mmmm…” One of the arms tightened over Aragorn’s chest. Boromir’s familiar voice mumbled soothing noises at the shell of Aragorn’s ear. “Nae yet, luv. S’ all right… s’ still early. Go back ter sleep.” A sleepy kiss brushed skin and Boromir silenced once more.

Holding down the panic that wanted to bubble up, Aragorn used what senses he had remaining to discover what was going on. Crinkled, lighter blond hair was tickling against Aragorn’s skin. If Boromir was in the bed with him, then the identity of the other body was fairly obvious. Faramir lay with them, and from the feel of it he was also the only one wearing any clothing. One of the legs tangled up with Aragorn’s was covered with thin, soft material.

In a whisper only just loud enough for Aragorn to hear, Faramir asked, “Are you all right then?” The young king’s face shifted so he could see Aragorn’s face. “Are you still Aragorn?” The question seemed calm enough, but Faramir’s chest was tightening up, as if he was preparing to pull free or perhaps shout for help.

“I didn’t want to be released,” Aragorn complained in a soft tone, not wanting to disturb Boromir yet. His arm tightened, holding Faramir in a firm embrace. “That wasn’t the deal, boy.” His grip on Faramir had to be skirting the edge of painful but he didn’t let up. “I just wanted open access to Gondor. I didn’t ask for this.”

“I’m sorry.” Faramir’s voice was genuinely regretful. “I really am… but I thought it through. I turned it every which way and looked at all the possibilities. This is the only way.”

“It’s worked the way it was for generations, you foolish child. There was no need to take away my power… my immortality,” he hissed. It was getting harder to stay still and not disturb Boromir.

“You’ve never been so powerful as you became while father and Eowyn were wielding you. You’d never been so well fed before,” Faramir murmured. “And it would have been too easy for me to fall into depending on you to make up for my own uncertainties. You would have eaten me alive.” He shifted just a little so he could look up. “Aragorn was a normal man not so very long ago. If you’re still Aragorn, I’m certain you can re-learn the way of things.” His eyes flicked to Boromir. “I know someone who will help you.”

Aragorn stared at his former master. It was odd, looking at the king of Gondor and knowing he didn’t have to oblige the person who held that title any longer. “You were afraid of me, of my power. You’re still afraid of me,” he accused. “You know you didn’t stand a chance against me the way I was. That’s why you chose to free me, to strip me of my magic.”

“Must the two most important people in my life snap and snarl at each other… especially while I’m trying to sleep?” Boromir’s sleepy complaint interrupted, silencing them both. He sighed and pushed up to one elbow so he could see Aragorn more clearly. With a grave expression, Boromir met Aragorn’s eyes. “Are you… still you?”

“No,” Aragorn admitted honestly. “I’m not.” He felt terrifyingly incomplete. Entire lifetimes were now only distant recollections rather than clear memories. Only the last few hundred years were easy to grasp. Emotionally, he felt as if he’d been turned inside out and tipped sideways. There were regrets bothering him once more that hadn’t mattered to him since his merging with Isildur’s line. Everything felt raw and out of control.

The pain that blossomed in Boromir’s eyes at hearing that statement demanded more from Aragorn. Faramir was released and Aragorn caught after Boromir with both hands to prevent the withdrawal he saw coming. “But I am enough the same… to know that I still love you, that I still want you above all else.”

“Above your former powers?” Faramir spoke as he shifted upright. The interruption earned him a harsh glare from Aragorn, but he pressed on. “Because that’s the price that had to be paid to share Boromir’s life.”

“So you say, boy.”

“So said the king of Gondor… your former master and my present master,” Boromir added in a soft whisper. “Was the price too high, Aragorn? Tell me the truth.”

There was note of doubt in Boromir’s question that made Aragorn’s attention snap back to his lover, eyes wide. Aragorn stared, trying to compensate for his lack of insight into Boromir’s thoughts by absorbing every detail of Boromir’s expression. At some point over the last two years Boromir had changed from a pleasant diversion to the only thing that really mattered to Aragorn. His duties had become tasks to be finished as quickly as possible so he could return home. All his long excursions to immerse himself in one culture or another of Middle-Earth had ended the day he’d brought Boromir home. Leaving Barad-dur to fetch supplies had become a chore rather than an amusing change. “No.” The word huffed out. “No, it wasn’t too high a price.”

The smile that lit up Boromir’s face kindled a responding fire in Aragorn.

“I love you, Aragorn.”

Without his magic, there was no jolt to remind him of the binding that those words had once represented, but still they filled Aragorn with warmth. Nor was the kiss that Boromir gifted him with a moment later any less powerful because of the loss. It was all-encompassing bliss, hot and provoking in every way. Aragorn’s mouth opened and he wallowed in the pleasure. He barely noticed the mattress shifting underneath them, until Boromir drew away from the kiss with a sigh and looked to the side of the bed.

“I should… see Elphir, Lothiriel… check with Eomer.” Faramir’s mumbles were barely audible. His shoulders shrugged and he crossed his arms protectively in front of himself.

Boromir frowned and shot a look of distress at Aragorn. Perhaps it wouldn’t be as difficult as Aragorn feared, learning to read his lover without the aid of magic. “You could stay, Faramir,” he allowed, realizing that was what Boromir wanted. Aragorn had entertained the possibility of having both the brothers in the past. Those memories were quick to flare up, dampening the resentment Aragorn was dealing with over Faramir’s trick.

“Please, Faramir.” Boromir made himself clear on his opinion. “Stay with us until morning. It’s only…” Looking around provided few clues. “It’s still early. I know it is.” Pulling away from Aragorn, Boromir climbed up to his knees.

Faramir was clearly torn, his eyes shifting from his clothing, to the door, to his brother’s nude form, and then to Aragorn. “I had my time. It’s over. I can accept that. I should go.”

Grasping after his confidence and needing to prove to himself that he was still able to manipulate others at will, Aragorn caught Boromir’s shoulder and adjusted him, displaying Boromir like a prize. “FARAMIR!” The command was back in his voice, a great relief. “Do you know what Boromir wants?” The seductive purr reached out and snared Faramir’s attention. “He wants you in front of him and me behind him. He wants to kiss you and stroke you. He wants to suck you down while I shove my cock up his pretty arse.”

The king of Gondor had frozen in place at the sound of his name, eyes on Boromir, unconsciously licking his lips. Upon hearing Aragorn’s obscene suggestion he shuddered and gasped for air.

Boromir’s reaction wasn’t much different. His body quaked, and then arched out toward his brother. Boromir’s head fell backward to rest on Aragorn’s shoulder. A shiver wracked him as Aragorn’s fingers traced a line down Boromir’s ribs and hip-bone, high-lighting the elegant curve.

“If I pushed Boromir forward,” Aragorn rumbled out the words “His mouth would be right there… right where you needed it, sweet one.” Aragorn tickled his fingers upward, tormenting skin along the way, until he reached Boromir’s mouth. Those lips parted under the slightest bit of pressure. Aragorn’s fingers were not only allowed inside, but sucked eagerly. “I know you’ve had him while I was forbidden his company, Faramir. Was he everything you imagined, everything that you wished for while you lay in the darkness stroking yourself and hating yourself for the visions you needed to use to get off?”

The fascinated horror that Aragorn saw on Faramir’s face further alleviated the resentment he felt at having his powers torn away from him. His magic might be gone but Aragorn took solace that he was still able to manipulate the king of the largest empire in Middle-Earth with just a few simple words.

Faramir took an unsteady step back toward the bed. His mouth hung open and his fingers were flexing against his own arms in a manner that would likely leave bruises.

“It’s all right, pretty king,” Aragorn purred. Pulling his fingers out of Boromir’s mouth, Aragorn purposefully smeared glistening moisture across Boromir’s down-covered cheek and lower, to his neck.

Moaning out his arousal, Boromir bent under the lightest touch. When Aragorn’s palm finally reached the back of his shoulder and pushed, Boromir fell forward, a slow, elegant movement. Landing on his hands, Boromir let his head hang down, hiding his face.

Catching a handful of golden-brown hair, Aragorn forcibly exposed Boromir’s face to Faramir. “I watched his dreams,” Aragorn divulged in an enticing growl. “I crawled through his memories and fantasies. I saw you through his eyes, Faramir. I tasted what he felt when he was near you. I feasted on his shame and his desires.” Aragorn’s smile was wicked. “Shall we fulfil one of his dearest wishes, sweet Faramir?” Leaning to cover Boromir, Aragorn licked at his spine. “Open your mouth my golden lover. Faramir is going to fill it.” Looking up, Aragorn caught Faramir’s shocked expression. “You’ll have to be the one to take down your pants and to feed it to him. If Boromir moves his hands, he’ll fall on his face… and that would make it difficult for him to suck you, would it?”

Curses hissed out of Faramir. He edged closer again, but still stayed just far enough away that his cloth-covered erection didn’t touch Boromir’s parted lips. Faramir’s fingers twitched at the waistline of his leggings but he didn’t lower the material.

Smiling at Faramir’s hesitation, Aragorn eased backward. Dragging himself against Boromir’s squirming body, Aragorn could feel his lover’s panting desperation right through muscle and skin. “My love, my light. Not to worry. You’ll get what you want,” Aragorn promised against the curve of Boromir’s bottom. Hands tracing, Aragorn used his thumbs to part rounded flesh, while his fingers held tight to hips. Aragorn puffed out one warm breath in warning before pressing his face in to lick at impossibly sensitive skin.

Boromir shuddered, tensing.

“The door’s not locked. The guard…” Panic flavoured Faramir’s reminder. “Boromir, don’t scream.”

Pulling back briefly, Aragorn chuckled. “He will. He’ll shriek out his pleasure for the entire Tower to hear if you don’t take down your pants and fill his mouth so he can’t, sweet one.” That said, Aragorn bent in to lick at Boromir once more.

Cloth rustled and Faramir gasped desperately. Boromir’s loud moan strangled off into a faint whimper of pleasure a moment later. His entire body jolted in surprise and Boromir strained forward only to be dragged back by Aragorn’s grip on his hipbones.

It was harder now he had to bother with breathing, but Aragorn persisted. He teased the entrance to Boromir’s body with his tongue, thrilled by the way Boromir shook and tried to spread his legs even wider. Aragorn curled his tongue to breach the hole and was rewarded with a muffled scream of delight.

Faramir’s panting breaths were a little louder, but they sounded torn, as if he was trying hard to contain them and failing. Each time Aragorn pressed his tongue inside Boromir, Faramir was the one to whimper in response.

When his own desires grew too sharp to delay any longer, Aragorn shifted up to his knees. He wiped at his chin with the back of his hand, and then reached across the straining curve of Boromir’s trapped body to cup Faramir’s shining face. “Open your eyes, pretty king. Look at me!” Aragorn demanded.

Lashes fluttered over stunned blue eyes. A thin line of blood trickled from Faramir’s harshly bitten lips.

The luminous red made Aragorn smile. He used two fingers, attempting to gather up the vital fluid. Moving slowly so Faramir’s unfocused eyes could follow the action, Aragorn brought his fingers to his own mouth and sucked off the smear of blood. Even though his need to feed on the precious liquid was gone, the blood still tasted wonderful.

A pained moan escaped Faramir as he watched the display. That moan became almost a keen as Aragorn used those same fingers when he reached down and pressed into Boromir’s body.

“Don’t spill it, Faramir. Hold it. It will be worth the wait. I promise,” Aragorn rumbled before easing his fingers free, lining himself up, and shoving his erection in with a single, smooth thrust.

Faramir winced and pulled away. Boromir gasped out a faint protest at the denial, but it strangled off as Aragorn seized his lover and dragged Boromir up higher, against his chest. Snaking his arms around Boromir, Aragorn was able to pinch at his nipples and stroke his belly while pumping into Boromir’s shuddering body. Concentrating on the feel of Boromir clenching around him and the burn in his thighs at taking his lover in this position, Aragorn missed the exact moment when Faramir surrendered to desire, scrambled out of his disarranged, halfway stripped off leggings and plastered himself to Boromir’s front.

With Faramir helping to balance them, Aragorn was able to throw his entire weight into slamming in and dragging out of Boromir’s shaking body. Aragorn bit down at Boromir’s shoulders, but newly blunted teeth bruised rather than drawing blood. One hand, a hand that had to be Faramir’s, reached around to dig rounded fingernails into Aragorn’s skin. Boromir was whining, although the sound muffled by the fact his mouth was locked to Faramir’s and broken by grunts at each of Aragorn’s thrusts.

Orgasm finally came, tearing up and wracking Aragorn with a violence had hadn’t expected. Aragorn clung, sinking his teeth in and gripping sweating flesh so hard it had to be bruising. Panting, he finally withdrew from Boromir’s body. His legs felt like wet sand but, Aragorn forced himself to settle back gracefully against the pile of the pillows on the bed and stretch out. Catching Boromir by the hair and tugging was the only way to separate the brothers. Boromir was dragged down to lay, face up, between Aragorn’s tingling legs.

Kneeling above them, Faramir was a sight. His eyes were wild, his lips were wet and bruised, and drips of milky precome leaked from his erection. He trembled and his fists clenched. “I… want.” Faramir rasped out the words with difficulty.

Boromir’s body arched up as if the sentiment had been a physical caress.

“Lift your legs, my love. Let me hold you open for him,” Aragorn whispered against the top of Boromir’s head.

An open mouthed moan shook Boromir and he obeyed. Aragorn caught hold of the underside of Boromir’s knees as soon as they came in reach and gripped them hard, pulling them back against Boromir’s chest and almost bending him over double.

Faramir gasped at the completely decadent offering. This was nothing like the careful, luxurious hours of making love that he and Boromir had shared in the royal bed. This was unabashedly obscene. It was raw, depraved, and strangely mesmerizing. His forefinger touched first, trailing through the drips already leaking out of Boromir’s opened hole. Boromir stifled a wail by turning his face and biting into Aragorn’s upper arm.

“Do it, Faramir,” Aragorn coaxed. “I loosened him up for you. Take what you want… as hard and as fast as you want to. Take him.”

Settling in place was awkward, Faramir didn’t seem to know where to put his hands. He used one to steady himself, holding his shaft briefly before his body surged forward and he pierced Boromir to the core. After that it was just a knot of arms, hands and legs. Faramir wrapped the fingers of his right hand around Boromir’s still unsatisfied erection and squeezed while the other threaded through tangled limbs to brace himself. One of Boromir’s legs slipped and Aragorn’s free hand interlocked with Faramir’s to fist Boromir’s cock.

“Keep your eyes open, Faramir,” Aragorn taunted. “Keep them open and memorize this so you’ve got something to keep you hard while whatever vapid virgin they thrust upon you as queen lays underneath you like a dead fish waiting for you to give her baby. That’s when you’ll close your eyes. That’s when you’ll need the memory of pounding like an animal into Boromir’s eager body to heat your blood.”

“Be quiet!” Faramir snarled, even as he strained to bury himself ever deeper inside Boromir.

“Faramir,” Boromir whispered against salty skin. His heel dug into the small of Faramir’s back, urging his brother on. His body surged into the thrusts as much as his trapped position would allow. “Aragorn.” Boromir’s head tossed and his neck arched. “I’m so close.”

“Then let it come, love. You’ve waited long enough,” Aragorn crooned. “Clamp down on your little brother’s cock and milk him dry. Drag him tight into you, where you always wanted to keep him.” Aragorn’s fingers coaxed. “You’re so beautiful when you’re getting off. I want to watch it forever. I want to see it every day, every night… until the end of time. Sweet Boromir. My light. My love. Anything you need. Anything you want. I’ll get it for you.”

“Ahhh!” One of Boromir’s arms twisted painfully to reach up and backward, to clutch at Aragorn, even as both his legs wrapped around Faramir and squeezed. The sound he let out was victorious and thick with pleasure.

Faramir’s shuddering groan was decidedly more painful as he slammed the last of his strokes into Boromir. Panting, the tightness in his limbs gradually softened away and Faramir slumped. His arms wrapped around Boromir and held on desperately.

Petting, Faramir’s reddish-blond hair, Aragorn kissed Boromir.

*

Everyone in Faramir’s office fell silent as Lord Elphir was ushered inside. Eomer was holding tight to the packet full of documents concerning the Riddermark. Faramir straightened up from where he was leaning on the desk. Aragorn was on the far side of the room from Eomer, attempting to keep within the shadows that the thin sunlight from the single window didn’t reach.

For his part, Boromir broke into a brilliant smile. “Elphir! Cousin.” Boromir paced over and drew the other man into a brief embrace. They didn’t see each often but Boromir and Elphir weren’t too distant from each other in age and interests so the few times that they had been together had been a pleasure for them both. “I heard about your father. I’m sorry. It was a tragedy. He was a fine man.”

“Thank you, Boromir.” Elphir’s smile was wistful. “We all miss him, and we never did locate the scoundrels who waylaid him and killed him. It’s my greatest failing since taking over Dol Amroth, that I never managed to avenge my father.” Knuckles brush briefly across Boromir’s jaw. “It’s a damned shame. He would have been proud to see his little sister’s son on the throne of Gondor.” The way he phrased the sentence seemed to hint that both Elphir and his late father would have preferred Boromir to succeed Denethor as king.

Boromir squeezed the shoulder of his favourite cousin. “Faramir is going to do us all proud.” Turning, Boromir urged Elphir closer to the desk.

“My king.” Elphir’s head bowed.

“Lord Elphir.” Faramir’s response was softly spoken.

It was an awkward moment. Elphir was several years Boromir’s elder and the few times that Faramir had met Elphir before his coronation, Faramir had been mostly ignored by the older boy.

Boromir broke in, bluntly bringing up the subject that both of them needed to discuss. “I suppose you know this is about Lothiriel,” he released Elphir’s shoulder to position himself halfway between Faramir and their cousin.

Elphir nodded. “Father always liked you Boromir. He had hopes that you would make a match with Lothiriel, although Denethor wouldn’t hear of it.”

“She’s always been a sweet little bit of a girl.”

“Not a little girl anymore, cousin. Didn’t you see her at the coronation?”

“The day was a trifle… overwhelming.” Boromir shrugged. He hadn’t had eyes for anyone but Faramir.

“I saw her. She was at your side,” Faramir took up the conversation. “A lovely young woman in a pale blue dress. Very quiet, very poised,” he remarked.

“Lothiriel is also a much sought-after girl. There have been five proposals of matrimony made about her just this year.”

“But an offer from the King of Gondor would be preferred, correct?” Boromir cut to the heart of the matter.

Elphir spared a glance in Eomer’s direction, before turning his eyes to Boromir. “Or from the Captain of Gondor’s army.” He didn’t want his sister wedded to Eomer it seemed, even though Eomer was the existing heir to the empire.

An uncomfortable silence fell over all of them as they each realized what the next step had to be.

Aragorn flowed into the gap, stepping into the light. “King Faramir needs a girl who was raised to orchestrate a court. He’d like to marry your sister, Lord Elphir… and you want the best for Lothiriel. It doesn’t get any more royal than the Queen of Gondor.” Aragorn gestured to a parchment on the desk. “Those are the terms that Faramir is offering in regards to her dowry, goodwill concessions and a bride price. Read them and get back to him by dinner tonight.”

Faramir’s cheeks burned red. Elphir looked scandalized at the mercenary tone of Aragorn’s voice.

“This is Aragorn,” Boromir attempted to explain to his cousin. “Aragorn is…” he faltered.

“Aragorn is a special advisor to the throne, who works under Boromir’s direct authority,” Faramir finished for his brother.

Elphir’s eyes narrowed. “Do I know you?”

Aragorn’s smile was frighteningly smug. “No, you don’t. Although I did have dealings with your father, and your family, on behalf of King Denethor on a fair number of occasions.” Reaching out, Aragorn picked up the marriage contract and presented it to Elphir. “Look it over and if you agree, King Faramir requires that it be signed with all haste.”

“Aragorn…” Faramir’s tone was annoyed.

Rounding on the young king, Aragorn’s voice raised. “This entire empire depends on two childless eighteen-year-old boys,” he stated without hesitation. “You don’t have any time to waste, my king. If Lord Elphir is not interested in making his sister the Queen of Gondor, you need to find out promptly and see to picking out another girl.” Turning slightly, Eomer was pointed out. “Nor does Prince Eomer have much time to spare fiddling about. Every concession Faramir has made to you is temporary. You will never be more than a glorified governor in the Riddermark, Eomer. It doesn’t become an independent kingdom again until your SON inherits. Your son will be a king, so you’d best see to siring one on a proper wife soon.”

Eomer glared, but it didn’t appear to faze Aragorn in the least.

Seeing a private argument beginning, Elphir cleared his throat. “Lothiriel and I will have an answer for you in two hours. If everything works out, the wedding can be announced at dinner this evening, your majesty.”

“Thank you, Elphir.” Boromir took the task of seeing his cousin to the door.

“A special advisor to the throne?” Eomer mimicked, once the lord of Dol Amroth was gone. He sneered at Aragorn.

Brows arching, Aragorn looked to Faramir.

“He knows things,” Faramir began. “He knows more about politics and intrigue than all three of us put together. I’m not about to waste any resources at this point.”

“You can’t trust him,” Eomer countered, lip curling. “You’ve no bindings on him anymore. He hasn’t even sworn his loyalty to you, Faramir. He’s without any allegiances.”

“That’s not true,” Faramir corrected. “There’s one thing in the entire world that Aragorn cares for.”

Everyone looked at Boromir, who frowned at the attention.

“Boromir, as Captain of the army…” Faramir asked, “…will you accept the responsibility of supervising Aragorn if I retain him as an… independent observer and advisor on political tactics?”

“Just say ‘spy’, pretty king.” Aragorn smirked. “We all know that’s what you mean.”

Faramir shrugged. “According to the histories, you were a Ranger of Dunland and the northern reaches before you were chosen as a vessel of the demon. I expect you’ll be an asset.” Faramir looked into Aragorn’s deceptively mild, blue eyes. “Will you swear loyalty to me once more, as a man this time? Will you take the position?”

There was a long pause. Aragorn pursed his lips. “I will, on one condition.” He looked over to Eomer, his mouth pulling into a smile. “Prince Eomer will need to marry as well. I want the task of choosing his bride. I want him to promise to marry whatever bride I pick out for him.”

“That’s absurd,” Eomer objected.

“Do you have anyone in mind already?” Faramir asked of Eomer. “Or were you just going to take whoever the council suggested for you?”

“I don’t want to get married.” Eomer pulled the papers granting him control of the Riddermark close to his chest.

“Neither do I,” Faramir snapped. “But Aragorn is right. We both need sons… quickly. One girl is much like another when you don’t want any one in particular.” He sighed. “Please Eomer. I could use Aragorn. Will you take his choice of a bride?”

“I just want to go home, Faramir. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. I just want to take… what’s mine,” Eomer verbally stumbled to keep from saying Eowyn’s name, “…and go back to Edoras.”

“I’ll bring her to you,” Aragorn offered. “In one year I’ll bring you a wife, and I expect you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”

“Eomer please,” Faramir coaxed.

“May I leave tomorrow, or do I have to linger here for your wedding, Faramir?”

“You can go, if it’s what you want.”

“And will you see us both off… as be-fits siblings of the king?” Eomer pushed.

“Eomer,” his tone cautioned.

“Just treat her as MY sister deserves, even if you don’t want to acknowledge that she’s your’s too. That’s all I’m asking,” Eomer bargained. “Give her that much dignity. Don’t make us slink out of here like unwanted beggars.”

“And you’ll accept whatever girl Aragorn brings you? You’ll marry her without putting up a fuss?” Faramir’s nose was wrinkled, as if a foul odour was annoying him.

“I will. I promise.”

“Then I will see happily see you off at nine tomorrow morning in the courtyard, my brother… and I will politely bid goodbye to YOUR sister.”

*

Too many times in his life Faramir had stood in the courtyard of the White Tower saying good-bye to one person or another. There was a bitter-sweetness to this particular parting. He really would miss Eomer. Their childhood was now completely gone. Both young men were taking up demanding positions in different parts of the county. They would see each other only once every year or two. This parting did mean, however, that if he wished it, Faramir would likely be able to avoid speaking to Eowyn for the rest of his life.

After so many repetitions of saying good-bye to Boromir while Eomer stood by offering support, it was especially odd to be doing it the other way around. Boromir and Aragorn stood off to the left and behind. Lothiriel, already acting the part of Faramir’s future bride, was to the right with a lady-in-waiting chaperoning her.

Eomer and Eowyn each stood beside a waiting mount. Faramir scuffed his feet slightly as he approached the pair. He kept his gaze on Eomer as much as possible.

Eomer wouldn’t allow the avoidance, however. The deal had been that Faramir would grant Eowyn a proper farewell, and Eomer enforced it. He caught at Faramir’s arm and purposefully turned him once they were close enough.

The half siblings stared at one another. Eowyn found her voice first. “I WILL miss you, Faramir. I do love you. I always have. I really was thinking of your best interests.”

“Do not.” Faramir shook his head. “I don’t want to fight with you.” Catching Eowyn’s shoulders, Faramir leaned in to kiss her cheek, startling backward when she attempted to turn her mouth into the kiss. “Please don’t,” he repeated firmly. “Lothiriel is watching.”

Eowyn’s chin lifted. “You don’t love her.”

“But I am going to marry her,” Faramir replied softly. “And it’s all about appearances today, not emotions, or I wouldn’t be here with you.” While Eowyn went still with sudden anger, Faramir pressed a fleeting kiss on her cheek and retreated quickly.

Eomer frowned. “This isn’t exactly what I wanted.”

“I know,” Stepping up to his half-brother, Faramir eased both his hands into Eomer’s long hair, and cupping the sides of his head, Faramir drew him forward so their foreheads touched. “I am sorry, Eomer, but the wound is still fresh and it’s hard to pretend otherwise.”

“We both love you, Faramir.” Eomer settled his own hands on Faramir’s shoulders with the thumbs just brushing his gold-braided collar. “I’m worried about you… being here with only Boromir looking after you.”

“Boromir took care of me for years, better than my father and mother both. I’ll be fine. It’s you that concerns me, Eomer.”

“She loves me,” he assured. “I know you don’t trust Eowyn’s motives any longer, but I believe that she truly loves me… and I love her.”

A single kiss was taken, and then Faramir backed away. His expression was grave. “It’s a pity that you will miss my wedding, but in a year we’ll celebrate your’s together, brother-mine.” He forced a smile. “I’m eager to see Edoras. I have never been to Ro… the Riddermark before,” Faramir corrected himself at the last moment.

Eomer’s head bowed. “We look forward to seeing you again… no matter the circumstances.” His distaste for the upcoming wedding was clear.

“Faramir?” Eowyn’s tone was expectant.

“Good-bye Eowyn.” Turning away, Faramir climbed the steps, giving them room to mount and allowing the horses space enough to fidget if they needed it. Faramir’s eyes flicked toward Boromir and Aragorn, but he purposefully moved to stand with Lothiriel. His posture was stiff.

When the reassuring heat of Boromir’s hand settled on Faramir’s shoulder it eased some of his tension. The two men had moved over to present a united front. Boromir had placed himself right at Faramir’s back.

Eowyn swung up into the saddle, threw a nasty glare in their direction, and whirled her mare around and away. Eomer’s eyes lingered a moment, but he was quick to chase after his sister when she bolted.

“I wish…” Faramir began.

“Next year is next year, little one,” Boromir interrupted the sentence. “Let it go until then. You’ve other concerns to put your mind to.”

Nodding, Faramir turned to his intended bride. “Shall I see you back to your brother’s rooms, my lady, or is there another place that you need to go?”

“Oh,” Lothiriel turned her sky blue eyes Boromir’s way. “I wouldn’t dream of distracting you from important business, my lord Faramir. Perhaps your brother could show me down to the kitchens? I wish to inspect the staff.”

“Boromir is for the training yard, Lady Lothiriel.” Aragorn gracefully stepped in and caught the girl’s arm. “But I would love to escort to you about the tower while the Captain and the King tend to their business.”

If she was disappointed by the substitution, the girl covered it perfectly. Aragorn was gifted with a demure smile. “You are too kind, sir. Thank you.”

“Then I will see you at dinner tonight,” Faramir inclined his head slightly before turning his back on Aragorn and Lothiriel. When he started walking Boromir fell in step with him.

“He won’t disappoint you, Faramir. I suspect that Aragorn is going to worth his weight in gold to you before this year is over.”

Faramir’s smile was tight. “I know.” They reached a parting of their paths all too soon. “Don’t over-strain yourself sparring, Boromir.”

“I know, I know. I’m badly out of shape, but I’ll be careful.” Impulsively, Boromir reached up and ruffled Faramir’s hair as much as the circlet on his head allowed. “And don’t you strain your pretty head. I’ll see you at dinner too… if not sooner.”

*

The entire path from the main hall to the Royal suite was strewn with bits of flowers. Some of the velvety white petals had fallen from Lothiriel’s crown, train or bouquet, but the rest of it had been purposefully scattered by the girls and ladies who composed the new queen’s court.

Faramir had delayed following the flowery trail for as long as was socially acceptable, but it couldn’t be put off any longer. When Elphir had moved to stand at the archway and tapped his foot impatiently, Faramir knew it was time to follow the women upstairs.

An entire herd of ladies had accompanied Lothiriel up to the suite, but Faramir had only three companions. Elphir walked ahead with old Eredon of Calembel. The two of them were standing witness as representatives for the council and the empire. Boromir was a comforting presence at Faramir’s side. He was the military’s witness.

“I know they’ve got to be here,” Faramir sighed, keeping his voice to a low whisper. “But they aren’t helping to quell this desire I’m feeling to flee to the stables and out of the city.”

“Just try to ignore them for now and concentrate on the task at hand, Faramir. There’s a swath of fabric draped over the bed at about waist level,” Boromir kept his own tone soft. “They’ll… we’ll leave the sitting room when you come out and give it to them… us. I’m going to be out there too. It comes with my position. Faramir, it has to be stained with blood or there will be trouble.” Slowing their step a little, Boromir caused them to fall back a bit from the noblemen. “If she doesn’t bleed when you take her, or there isn’t much blood… cut your hand and smear it on the fabric if you want to keep Lothiriel. The cloth is going to have to hang in the hall for everyone to see.”

Faramir cursed archaic traditions and stared down at his feet.

“Father flew the sheets he laid mother down on from the poles beside his tent door. She told me about it.” Boromir hitched his head, gesturing to indicate how close they were to Faramir’s suite. “Can you do this?”

“I don’t know. I suppose I’ll have to, won’t I?”

Eredon and Elphir were holding open the doors to the royal suite. A flood of females poured out a moment later, twittering like newly released songbirds.

“Let me stand as your valet, Faramir.” Boromir requested. “I’ll help you out of your gear and get you ready for bed. It’s supposed to be someone you can trust to see Lothiriel half-undressed, someone like her brother… but if you’ll let me…”

Nodding vehemently, Faramir pushed into movement once more, leading the way this time. The Gondorian lords followed them in and shut the doors behind themselves.

When Elphir moved as if to follow Faramir deeper into the suite, Boromir waved him off. “I’m going with him.”

“Boromir, I don’t suggest it.” Elphir frowned, looking uncomfortable. “You would be best kept away from the new queen this night. She…” He grimaced. “Lothiriel is rather too fond of you, Boromir. She has been since she was a little girl. Perhaps I should be the one to help Faramir.”

“I’ll close the bed curtains around her,” Faramir compromised. “Boromir is coming in to help me out of this damned frippery I had to wear for the ceremony.” The costuming for the wedding was an intricate decorated, excessively elaborate concoction of white, gold and green, four layers thick. None of the nobles who were part of the core ritual would be able to undress themselves.

Faramir ended the disagreement by simply walking away. Boromir smiled fleetingly and followed his brother into the bedroom. He shut the door between them and the outer room, sliding the bolt into place for good measure. Elphir and Eredon might be upset by the barrier, especially if Boromir lingered too long in the bedroom, but neither of them would share the tale of the transgression beyond these walls. Elphir might even like to think that Boromir’s child would come of this night’s work rather than Faramir’s, although he would never speak of it aloud.

“My lord?” Lothiriel sat on the side of the bed clutching a sheer, frothy white robe about herself. “My lords?” she corrected, eyes wide as she realized both the brothers were in the room.

“Give me just a few moments, please.” Faramir paced over, and urging his new wife to perch up on the mattress, he yanked the heavy curtains that surrounded the bed tightly closed.

Boromir padded about the room, blowing out most of the candles. He left only one stand of them burning near the head of the bed. It didn’t allow for much light to undress Faramir with, but the shadows were their friends considering Lothiriel could easily peer out from between the heavy velvet curtains if she felt the urge. “Over here, Faramir,” Boromir called softly from the most distant corner of the room from the bed.

Blinking to adjust his eyes, Faramir followed his brother’s voice into the heavy gloom near one of the tall wardrobes.

“Boots first.”

Faramir felt Boromir kneel before him, rather than seeing it. When strong hands caught at his leg, Faramir reached out to brace himself. One hand caught the wardrobe, the other settled into Boromir’s soft hair. His breath caught as Boromir’s hands set to work. “Where is Aragorn? I haven’t seen him in hours.”

“He’s prowling about the guest rooms while everyone is at the celebration.” Boromir’s breathy whisper was hard to hear. “I expect he’s going through Elphir’s suite right about now since Elphir is trapped here until you bring out the sheet.”

Faramir would have chuckled if he had any breath to spare, but the clearly sexual quality of Boromir’s touch was flustering him beyond words.

“Aragorn is worried you might have trouble with all this. He’s the one who detailed the customs for me.” Both of Faramir’s boots were set aside but Boromir didn’t rise. Still down on his knees, he reached up and set to relieving Faramir of his sword-belt. His voice continued on in a painfully quiet whisper, “He suggested that I do whatever was needed to get you ready for the marriage bed.” Fingers caressed in passing as Faramir’s belt was taken away.

“Boromir,” Faramir’s voiced the name like a gasp as Boromir rose up, the entire length of their bodies sliding together as he stood. “She’d accept you in the bed… if you wanted her.”

“I don’t.” Reaching around, Boromir loosened the ties hidden under Faramir’s shoulder sash. “You’ve more experience than I do with this kind of thing, Faramir. I’ve never had a woman. I don’t expect I ever will now.” His breath ruffled Faramir’s hair. “I don’t want to. I never want anyone else but Aragorn… and you.”

Faramir bit back a whimper.

“Quietly, love.” Boromir brushed a kiss across Faramir’s cheek before returning to the task of divesting Faramir of all the complex garments he was wearing. Gradually bare skin began to appear from beneath the layered outfit. More kisses teased across each bit of skin, hidden within the actions of removing the clothing.

Shivering, Faramir fought to hold still and quiet under the extended tease.

“I have to leave the door open when I leave so the others can witness the consummation. Try to get her to make some sort of noise if you can.”

“This is… barbaric.”

“Just a few generations ago they might come in and watched,” Boromir informed him. “Think of all that is detailed in those papers you and Elphir signed, then consider how much more complex it would have been if he was from a neighbouring country rather than your vassal.” The last of Faramir’s shirts was finally peeled upward. Gentle fingers traced down Faramir’s spine and Boromir’s mouth pressed to the nape of Faramir’s neck.

Closing his eyes, Faramir arched back into the contact. “You could stay in here and watch if you wanted to,” he offered.

“No, love. If an heir comes of what happens tonight, Eredon mustn’t have any doubts that it’s your’s… and not mine.” Fingers slipped inside Faramir’s waistband and eased it carefully downward. Lips right at Faramir’s ear, Boromir whispered. “Do you want me to…” He pressed his hand further into Faramir’s leggings and wrapped his hand around the erection he found there. Fingers tickled, stroking lightly.

Faramir had to seize Boromir’s hand and stop the action. “I won’t last if you do and then what?” His chuckle was bitter.

Boromir nodded and, staying behind Faramir, he knelt down to help Faramir out of his pants. Rising, Boromir was about to withdraw when Faramir caught the front of his shirt and dragged him into a proper kiss.

“I wish I was someone else besides the king of Gondor,” Faramir murmured. “I wish by all that’s holy I was Aragorn instead of myself. I love you.”

“I love you too,” Boromir whispered back. With one final stroke of his hand over Faramir’s cheek, Boromir ghosted over to the door, threw it wide open and disappeared into the glow of light from the outer room.

*

Lothiriel and Aeryn

“It’s not a sight I ever expected to see,” Faramir remarked as he dropped down to sit cross-legged in the grass beside Aragorn.

The light was just fading from the sky and the scent of cooking food floated about the newly erected camp. Not too far away Lothiriel’s ladies were fussing about, attempting to create a nest comfortable enough for the queen to rest. At the very edge of the collection of wagons, horses and people Boromir was sparring happily with the newest addition to the court while Aragorn watched.

Boromir’s sparring partner had a style unlike any soldier of Gondor and it was actually testing Boromir’s recently recovered skills to match it. The technique shared some elements with Aragorn’s whirling strikes and bold actions but it was less flamboyant. The steps were defensive rather than aggressive.

“The Dunedain are skirmish fighters. Rangers and hunters rather than soldiers,” Aragorn remarked as he sharpened his own sword with long, steady strokes. “We’re used to fighting defensively… alone or in very small groups when the need arises.” He watched the bout with a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. Aside from the temporary trial of Aragorn and Boromir missing one another while Aragorn had gone off to fetch Eomer’s bride, that trip seemed to have done wonders for Aragorn. The dark edge was off his temperament and he was far more comfortable with himself as a normal man than he had been when he had left Minas Tirith to travel north.

“Get him, mama!” Ranian shrieked out encouragement while she jumped up and down at Aragorn’s other side. The small child knew enough to stay out of range of the flashing swords but she couldn’t manage keep completely still.

Both Boromir and the woman he was fighting with were grinning wildly, but it was at each other rather than their audience. Neither Aeryn nor Boromir were willing to allow their attention to drift for fear of losing ground in the mock battle. It was a startling change from the first time they had tested one another’s skills. Boromir was no longer holding back for fear of hurting Eomer’s intended bride and Aeryn had lost all of the shyness she’d felt upon first being brought into Gondor by Aragorn.

“I swear…” Boromir huffed out the words between strikes. “If more women were like you, I’d see a point to having them about.”

Laughing at the backhanded compliment, Aeryn ducked low and swung playfully at Boromir’s groin to make him jump away from her. “Not that any woman with the common sense of a horse would bother to dally about with the likes of you,” she snapped back. “Mind your footing, Captain. There are gopher holes behind you.”

“Then we’d best…” Boromir’s attack grew more aggressive, forcing Aeryn to retreat. “Go in the other direction.”

The faint rustle of skirts was almost lost in the clang of steel on steel, but it was enough to bring both Faramir and Aragorn to their feet. The sparring match stopped a breath later, with both of the combatants stepping backwards and lowering their swords. Lothiriel waited for little Ranian to lapse into silence, just like her elders, before the queen attempted to speak. It was a mark of Lothiriel’s station that she never attempted to shout over other voices. She preferred to rely on everyone else falling silent before she spoke, which everyone, from the roughest soldier to the crabbiest of the Tower servants seemed to be willing to do before the young queen.

“I apologize for interrupting,” Lothiriel began in a soft, sweet tone. “But I have been informed that our supplies are running low. We will need to divert our path to a settlement to restock, or send a small group to fetch dry goods.”

Faramir’s gaze ran over the large encampment. “We’ll divert. Even in lands as safe and settled as these…” He turned his focus back to Lothiriel pretty face first, but his eyes dropped to her waistline of their own accord, as happened so often lately. “I will not risk diminishing your escort, dear Lothiriel.”

Lothiriel’s right hand spread over her stomach, drawing even more attention to the slight rounding that had recently developed there. “I suspect that you worry overmuch for my wellbeing, husband, but I must admit to finding your concern flattering.” Lothiriel smiled, gazing up at Faramir from under her lashes and through a tangle of golden ringlets. “And I would very much enjoy a chance to indulge in the comforts that an inn would offer us.” Almost by accident Lothiriel’s attention seemed to drift toward where Boromir and Aeryn were standing. “We are drawing closer to Edoras every day. Prince Eomer might very well ride out to meet us any time,” she observed. “Perhaps the Lady Aeryn would like to avail herself of my maids’ attentions? Maybe she could exchange her leather and furs for something more… elegant?”

Aeryn’s dark eyes sparkled and a knowing grin pulled at one side of her mouth. She looked at Aragorn and her eyebrows lifted. When she finally declined the offer, it was in a polite, yet firm, tone. “No, but thank you very much, your majesty. I prefer to remain in the garb of my people until we reach Edoras. Once we are there, the clothing of the Riddermark’s shield-maids will likely be my preferred choice.”

Turning to Aragorn, Faramir tilted his head. “Shield-maids?”

“A custom your father did his best to abolish,” Aragorn provided. “The Riddermark is far less settled than the rest of Gondor. Every able body was sometimes needed to defend hearth and home… most notably from the armies of Gondor.”

Faramir nodded, recalling Eowyn’s rather undomesticated nature and her preference for training with him and Eomer rather than pursuing traditionally feminine virtues. With every passing day he was coming to appreciate Aragorn’s choice for Eomer’s future wife even more. Yes, she was a few years older than Eomer, but he could use Aeryn’s stability and experience. Yes, she had a child already so she was hardly the typical virgin bride a prince expected, but that was a sure indication that Aeryn was fertile. Ranian, being a girl, was certainly no threat to Eomer’s line, either. Most importantly, Aeryn wasn’t the type of woman that Eowyn was going to be able to torment, or even dismiss as beneath her notice.

“Boromir and I could ride south-east,” Aragorn offered. “There’s a town not too far off in that direction, but I’m uncertain as to the quality of the terrain between here and there.” They had more than a few wagons with them in an effort to keep everyone comfortable along the route.

Faramir couldn’t help but shoot a knowing look in Boromir’s direction upon hearing the suggestion. With everyone in tents or under the stars at night, Aragorn and Boromir’s sexual relationship had been rather cool during this trip. No doubt they would get up to more than scouting the landscape if they went off together. “Will you be back by morning?”

“Of course,” Boromir paced over, fingers scraping sweat-wet hair back out of his eyes. “Our survey wouldn’t be much good elseways.”

“Me come! Me come!” Ranian crowed and jumped at Aragorn. Small hands clutched at his long riding coat. “I want to go s’ploring too.”

Sheathing her sword, Aeryn walked over and caught up her daughter. “Not this time, my darling.” Ranian was settled onto one strong hip.

“Best we start right off then.” Aragorn caught Boromir’s gaze. “I’ll grab us some food while you rinse off. We don’t need to bother with torches. It’s only a few days off the full moon.” Turning back to Lothiriel, Aragorn touched two curled fingers to his forehead and bowed slightly. “We will put every effort into finding you accommodations, my queen.”

“Thank you, Aragorn.” Her hand extended sideways, inviting Faramir to take it. “Will you come and sit with me, my lord? I’ve sorely missed your company and after spending all day in the wagon with the ladies it would be pleasant to hear a man’s voice… especially your’s.”

“Of course, my lady.” Faramir cast only the briefest glance after Boromir before turning his complete attention on his wife. She was drawn close and he curved one arm around her as they walked back toward the fires.

*

The court encountered a fair number of Riders, more and more as they drew closer to Edoras. All of them were respectful of their king and his company, but already there were suggestions of an independent spirit taking hold in Rohan once more. They all still wore the uniforms of the Gondorian army but their decorations were subtly different.

Eomer and his personal company met them about two days out from Edoras. He rode up to Faramir and the court with six riders at his side. It was enough men to convey Eomer’s importance without giving the impression of a threat. As soon as they drew within attack range, Eomer’s escort dropped back so he could bring himself along-side Faramir. Both their smiles were bright at the reunion.

“I’ve been dying to see you since the word came that you had started across the plains,” Eomer’s grin widened even further. “Isn’t the Riddermark beautiful, Faramir? There were times in the Tower when I wondered if it was imagination rather than memories that painted this place with such wonder… but it wasn’t. It’s everything I dreamed it was. I love it here.”

Faramir couldn’t contain the happy laughter that bubbled up at both Eomer’s presence and his clear excitement. Leaning over, he brushed his fingers down Eomer’s elaborate chest-plate. “I haven’t seen the like of this anywhere except in books. It suits you, Eomer.”

“One of the elders from outlying village brought it to Meduseld and gave it to me. It’s like what the men of my mother’s line wore.” His brow furrowed. “It’s all right, isn’t it, Faramir? The tree and stars are your’s. They belong to Gondor.”

“I understand why you want to be different, and I don’t have a problem with you wanting to revive the ways of the Rohirrim… but you’re still the heir to Gondor, Eomer,” Faramir reminded him.

“Not for long, from the news I’ve heard.” Twisting in his saddle, Eomer looked backwards over the rest of the train. “Where is the queen?”

“In a wagon. We don’t dare risk her riding a horse in her condition.” Faramir sat tall. “She’s expecting the baby by early winter.” His smile faltered when he realized that Eomer’s delighted expression had fled.

Eomer was stiff, and his mount was slowing in response to its rider’s odd posture. His sweeping gaze had halted on Aragorn. “Somehow…” Eomer began, “I’ve managed to go entire days without contemplating the purpose of your visit. I got lost in my joy at seeing you again and I forgot what it is that you’re bringing me.”

“I know it’s not what you want,” Faramir admitted. “But our positions demand it… and you did promise. You’ll like her, Eomer.” His tone was optimist. “She’s a remarkable woman.”

“And Lothiriel?” Eomer straightened out, dismissing Aragorn from his attention with some effort. “Do you like being married to her?”

Faramir’s shoulders shifted. “Everyone who meets her seems to like her. She’s done a great many things in the Tower that have made it more comfortable and everyone who’s introduced to her seems to be taken with her… from the most sophisticated city-raised noble to the representatives from the farm lands. I suppose she suits the position.” He sighed. “And she’s with child already. I’m told it’s a good sign that she conceived within the first year.”

“How positively romantic you sound, Faramir.” Eomer’s tone was cutting.

“Romance is for poets and shepherds, Eomer.”

“And Captains of the Guard, it seems,” he shot back. “What a complete jest it is. Boromir gets disgraced and he finds happiness while we have take up the royal duties and hide away our loves to marry strangers.” Eomer’s laugh was brittle. “Eowyn is…”

“Don’t,” Faramir cut him off, warning his half-brother away from mentioning Eowyn. “I don’t want to see her or hear about her. She’s not part of this visit.”

“Faramir, you’re being unreasonable.”

The argument was broken before it could properly begin by Aragorn and Aeryn racing up and past the king and the prince. “Come on, Horselord!” Aragorn shouted back over his shoulder as they tore past. “Show us how your horse stands up to the best animals in Dunland.”

“They must be joking,” Eomer stated, unable to believe that anyone would challenge the quality of his mount.

“Your horses are fast,” Faramir explained. “But those animals Aragorn picked up in Dunland have amazing stamina.”

Eyes brightening at the prospect of a different sort of race than he was accustomed to, Eomer looked forward at the lead the two had taken. “Do you mind, Faramir?”

“No. Go ahead and show them up. It’ll be nice to see Aragorn taken down a notch for a change.” His hand waved.

Not needing any more permission, Eomer grinned, flicked the reins, shouted at his mount, and took off in attempt to close the gap.

Once he was gone, Boromir drew up beside Faramir. They both gazed at the race that was beginning ahead of them.

“He frightens me sometimes, that’s he’s so good at reading us all,” Faramir said softly. “Aragorn, I mean. How did he know that this is exactly the right way to introduce Eomer to Aeryn?”

“All those other souls might be gone out of him,” Boromir answered in a bemused sort of voice. “But he still remembers more lives than just his own and he sees things differently than we do.” Waiting until Faramir looked over at him before continuing, Boromir whispered, “And he frightens me too sometimes.”

*

Boromir managed to make it all the way to the doors of the great hall of Meduseld before his stomach clenched up. The idea of entering that place yet again at the heels of a king of Gondor was just too much. He half-expected someone to run into the back of him because he’d stopped so suddenly, but it didn’t happen.

Aragorn was suddenly there, stroking a reassuring caress down the side of Boromir’s face. “The queen’s throne has been removed, love.”

“I don’t want to,” Boromir frowned. “I just don’t want to go in there.”

Faramir, walking with Eomer, was already in the door and half-way across the massive hall. Lothiriel was on her husband’s other side. The rest of the court dithered, not willing to by-pass Boromir, but wanting to catch up to Faramir and the queen.

“I have to go in with Aeryn,” Aragorn whispered in his most soothing tone. “But you don’t have to. You’re the Captain of the army, not a diplomat. Perhaps you could go look over the fortifications instead. I’ll tell the king where you’ve gone.”

Nodding, Boromir waved the lingering courtiers past. “I’ll catch up to everyone later.” The lot of them hesitated only long enough for Aragorn to take Aeryn’s arm and lead them in. Once they were gone, Boromir let out a relieved breath of air and turned around.

The day was bright and warm with just enough of a breeze to lift the flags and the view of the surrounding countryside from the Golden Hall was breathtaking. Boromir paced away from the front entrance and around to the west of the huge structure. Not many people were about. They were either at the reception for the king or tending to their work. All these visitors meant that inhabitants of Edoras had twice as much to do as normal.

Choosing a spot at random, Boromir stood still, pulling in calming breaths and attempting to clear his mind of the memories that were pestering him. When a voice interrupted him, it startled him even though it was soft-spoken.

“I know why I’ve been banished from the reception, but I would have thought you would be in the middle of things?” Eowyn’s slippers allowed her to step even closer without a wisp of noise. “Shouldn’t you be basking in Faramir’s attention… proud of your posting? So damned satisfied with how everything worked out for your benefit.” Her long hair lifted in the wind. “You got the lover you wanted, the position you wanted, none of the responsibilities that weigh on Eomer and Faramir bother you. Your life is just perfect, isn’t it, Boromir?”

“The two of us have nothing to say to each other, girl.” Boromir considered retreating from her company, but didn’t want to show that kind of weakness.

“Aragorn should have drank you dry when I gave you to him… but it’s my own fault… for not realizing my mistake.” She glared up at Boromir. “Aragorn had eaten too much of Denethor’s soul, he had become more like Denethor than I realized… and we all know how father felt about you.”

“Go away!” Boromir snapped at her, but the girl just laughed in his face.

“The only reason Aragorn ever wanted you was because Denethor wanted you. He didn’t fall in love with you,” she taunted. “Aragorn never chose to love you. He just absorbed the obsession along with Denethor’s essence.” Eowyn’s tone grew even more biting. “And you… you didn’t respond to Aragorn. You responded to the echo of father inside of him. Your soul recognized the man you’d been whoring for your whole life and you just continued on down the same path again… and since it was a different body you could admit to yourself just how much you enjoyed being father’s little slut without having to feel guilty about it.”

Boromir’s sword was drawn and levelled, but the tip of it shook badly.

“That’s why you wanted Faramir too, isn’t it? It’s just one more way to get our father in your bed without admitting that’s what you’ve always wanted. The only reason you didn’t whore yourself to Eomer too is because he isn’t enough like your first love to arouse your hunger. There hasn’t been anyone else, has there, Boromir?” Eowyn’s eyes glittered. “Just Aragorn and Faramir, because no one else is enough like father for you to feel anything for them.”

Steel touched her throat. “Silence!” Boromir demanded.

“Do it. Kill me,” Eowyn invited. “Tear your beloved Gondor apart. It will, when Eomer demands restitution and Faramir protects you, like he always has. What a lovely mess that will make. It would be worth dying to know the Riddermark would rise up once more and tear into Gondor peace-softened flank… and there’ll be no all-powerful demon to leap to Gondor’s defence this time… also, thanks to you.”

“Only if they find out who it was that killed you, you stupid little girl.” Boromir pressed just a little, drawing a trickle of blood to the surface.

“I think the girl I have watching us from a distance might find enough nerve to tattle on you, even if she’s too cowardly to interfere with the actual murder.”

Stepping back, Boromir lowered his weapon. “You’re nothing now, Eowyn. Aragorn has brought Eomer a wife. He’s going to fall in love with her. She’s going to give him children. You are going to slowly become less important than the muck being shovelled out of Edoras’ stables.”

“That may be… IF she can steal Eomer from me, which I doubt.” Her expression stayed stony. “But even if it happens I take comfort in knowing you’re going to suffer the same fate as me, brother-mine. Faramir will become more of a father and a husband with every passing season… and sooner or later, the last of Denethor’s influence will fade from Aragorn’s mind and he’ll toss you over as well for someone who isn’t overflowing with old hurts, someone who will do what he wants, someone who loves him and not the shadow inside him.” Slowly, Eowyn began to back away. “Of course you’ll still have your precious empire to defend. I’m sure that will be a comfort… until you become too old and feeble to swing a sword, then you won’t be any use to any one.” As soon as she was out of his reach, Eowyn laughed and swung around. Her words drifted back over her shoulder. “Perhaps I’ll see you at dinner… in the great hall… if you’ve the stones to walk in there.”

*

“This place isn’t so large…” Aragorn made his way down the incline between the mounds that suggested old graves with easy grace, “…that you can vanish to somewhere that I can’t find you, love.” He paced right up to where Boromir stood gazing up at the night sky. Both arms wrapped around Boromir’s body and drew him back against Aragorn’s chest. “I had to stop both Faramir and Ranian from coming in search of you several times.” He kissed at the side of Boromir’s neck. “I, myself, might have been more concerned if I hadn’t noticed you darkening the entranceway several times… even if you chose not to enter.”

Boromir’s body was still tense, despite the comforting embrace. “I’m in no mood for the type of festivities I saw happening.” The last time he had started to enter the great hall the sight of some unknown Rohirrim women dancing for the guests had halted him. The swing of long, blonde hair and swish of skirts and set him to flight that time.

“We won’t have to remain long.” Aragorn’s arms tightened. “Aeryn has no use for the pomp of a state ceremony and Eomer is growing more comfortable with the idea of his new bride by the moment. He was rather impressed when she proposed that they go hunting as soon as ‘all this wedding nonsense’ was out of the way.” Aragorn’s cheek rubbed into untidy golden-brown hair. “Faramir and Lothiriel will quite likely stay here a few weeks, but it’s perfectly reasonable for us to go back to Minas Tirith ahead of them.”

When no answer came, Aragorn released his hold on Boromir and forced his lover to turn around. Piercing blue eyes locked with green and Aragorn’s brow furrowed up as he studied Boromir. When Boromir tried to turn his face away a strong grip on his chin prevented the escape. “Tell me what’s happened,” Aragorn demanded. “There is more at work here than troubling memories.”

“How much of Denethor’s life do you remember?” Boromir’s question was whispered hesitantly.

“I did not live Denethor’s life.”

“But you absorbed pieces of him every time he called you,” Boromir countered. “You had devoured nearly all of him by the time he died. The spirit I felt leave you was… powerful. It felt just like father was there.”

Aragorn’s chin lifted and his expression grew even more concentrated. “I know what I do of Denethor’s life by looking through his thoughts, not by consuming him. Does eating a baked rabbit give you the urge to go bounding through clover?”

“I eat the rabbit’s flesh, not it’s soul.” Boromir jolted backward, freeing himself from Aragorn’s grip. “Answer me. How much of Denethor’s life do you remember?” he repeated. “How many of his memories do you possess? How many of his emotions did you share?”

It seemed for just a moment as if Aragorn was going to shout, but at the last second he calmed, letting out his breath slowly. “What has happened, Boromir? This must have come from somewhere.”

Boromir’s head shook. He didn’t want to admit that Eowyn’s poisonous hisses had affected him so deeply. “It’s…” He frowned, still looking outward rather than at Aragorn. “I DO love you.” A breath gusted out. “However… it was pointed out to me that the only reason you became attached to me was because of Denethor’s interest in me.” Boromir attempted to chuckle but the sound strangled off even as it emerged.

“I see.” Aragorn shot a murderous look back up toward the sprawling structures that housed the leaders of the Riddermark. “But IF that were the case, then the combination of expelling Denethor’s spirit and the time I spent travelling to Dunland and back while fetching Aeryn would have cooled my affection for you.” Aragorn slipped around Boromir to put them face to face once more. “But it didn’t. I adore you more now than I did when I first laid eyes on you, my love.”

Reaching up, Aragorn captured Boromir’s face between his hands and forced the other to meet his eyes once more. “My mind is filled with memories of relationships, from the most passionate affairs, to childhood crushes, to long loveless marriages,” Aragorn listed. “I know love when I see it, when I feel it… and I feel that way with you, my light. Anyone who would dare to dispute our bonding speaks only out of jealousy and spite.”

Boromir stared deep into Aragorn’s eyes, as if all the answers that hid from him might be found there. His head tilted to one side and his brows drew together in concentration. “Did you ever meet my mother?”

Startlement at the odd question straightened Aragorn’s spine. “I laid hands on her only briefly when I collected her for your father. After that I only ever saw her again through your father’s thoughts.”

“Did father love her? Ever? Or was it just a question of desire and possession?”

“He thought he loved her, but later on, it became a matter of ownership of something beautiful,” Aragorn’s response was cautious.

Boromir nodded. “Did you think my mother was beautiful, Aragorn?”

“She was, I suppose… in a purely aesthetic fashion, but Finduilas was fragile… far too fragile for the life that Denethor forced upon her. If I had to take a woman rather than you… I would find one more like Aeryn,” Aragorn elaborated. “I am NOT your father, Boromir. Even before the breaking of my magic I was not your father, nor did I become Eowyn simply because I feeding on her… although I know her well enough to see her handiwork in your fears.”

The deduction brought a flood of colour to Boromir’s cheeks.

“It’s late and your soul is wearied by the strain of this day,” Aragorn caught after Boromir’s hand. “I’ve secured a room for us in one of the outbuildings rather than in Meduseld. Come to bed, Boromir.”

He hung back just enough to feel the firm pull on his arm, before Boromir gave into Aragorn’s urgings and followed him back up the incline.

*

Aragorn took Boromir to the back room of the smithy. The blacksmith must have been sent somewhere else for the extent of their visit. It also appeared as if the smith’s normal accommodations had been augmented by some plush blankets and an oil lamp. The room was small, but the nest of blankets and pillows looked comfortable enough. They hung their weapons on hooks by the door and draped their armour and surcoats over the single chair in the room. Their boots were kicked off into the shadows.

Stripped down to just their undershirts and leggings, Aragorn eased Boromir down into their makeshift bed. “Lay back, love. Relax,” Aragorn murmured softly as he knelt down right next to him. "…close your eyes and let me touch you. Let me show you how much I love you.”

Sighing, Boromir sank back into the layers, but his eyes remained open and locked on his lover. The dim illumination of the single lamp might not be much, but it was enough for Boromir.

Reaching out, Aragorn’s fingertips began to trace Boromir’s face. The touch drifted across Boromir’s forehead and then down, to circle around sad green eyes. Realizing that Boromir’s eyes were going to stay open, Aragorn met his gaze and held it as his thumb brushed down the line of Boromir’s nose. Aragorn mapped out his lover’s lips, cheeks and jaw, following the carefully manicured lines of Boromir’s thin moustache and beard. “You are so beautiful.” The backs of fingers drew a line from one ear to the other, sketching out the curve of each ear in turn. “A work of art.” Aragorn’s touch traced down over Boromir’s chin to follow the line of his throat until he could dip his fingers into the open collar of Boromir’s shirt to caress tender skin.

Breath hissing out, Boromir arched into the touch. He started to reach up, only to have his wrist caught and pressed firmly back into the blankets.

“Let me. Trust me.” Aragorn shifted up so he was straddling Boromir. The pressure of his touch increased since a layer of thin cloth separated his fingers from Boromir’s chest. Calloused thumbs found and rolled against nipples which hardened at the contact. Chuckling at the eager response, Aragorn pulled at the tie that held the top of Boromir’s shirt closed. Slipping his hand under the loosened cloth, he stoked Boromir’s nipples.

“Aragorn…” Boromir shivered, squirming under the slow seduction.

“Help me take this off you,” Aragorn allowed, tugging at the pale chemise. It was peeled off and thrown to the side in two elegant moves, and then once more Boromir found himself pressed back down by firm hands.

Aragorn’s hungry gaze swept over his lover’s exposed chest and stomach. The dusting of golden blond hair gleamed in the warm light of the lamp. Aragorn took a moment to trace the line of sparse hair down to where it thickened slightly just at Boromir’s waistband, but then his fingers moved back up. The definition that had softened away during Boromir’s time in Barad-dur was back once more. His muscles were tightened back up from daily bouts of sword work and constant activity. The skin shivered under the light touches and Boromir’s chest was lifting with fast, shallow breaths.

“I could spend days just staring at you, love.” Aragorn laughed softly. “I have spent days at it. So strong outside, and yet so fragile inside.” Aragorn moved on to Boromir’s arms, massaging his biceps, then lifting each arm up, one at a time, so he could lick the skin from elbow to wrist. “Leave them here,” Aragorn requested, as he positioned Boromir’s arms up by his head. The pose made Boromir’s chest even more prominent.

Aragorn’s hands roamed across Boromir’s chest, stomach and sides of his body. The skin shivered and hairs stood up as the stimulation grew more intense. When both of Aragorn’s hands drifted down near Boromir’s hips, he groaned and raised his hips off the blankets in invitation.

“Not yet, my light.” Crouching over him, Aragorn was able to hold Boromir down while at the same time grinding down against his lover. Gusting out a breath in warning, Aragorn bent down so he could draw at one nipple while his fingers plucked at the other.

“Aragorn, oh… Aragorn.” Boromir’s head tossed and he moaned, but his arms stayed where they were pressed down.

As Aragorn’s mouth and hand changed places, his bearded chin dragged over sensitised skin. Aragorn’s free hand smoothed down over Boromir’s trembling stomach to tease about his navel. “Shhhh… you’re shaking too much.” A predatory smile pulled at Aragorn’s lips. Sitting up, Aragorn climbed off and moved, urging Boromir to sit up so he could slide behind him. “Calm down love, or it will be over before it begins.”

“You’re teasing!” The accusation was softly spoken.

“Yes, I am.” Aragorn yanked his shirt off over his head and threw it aside, wanting to be skin to skin. “And you love it.” A kiss brushed over one shoulder, then Aragorn’s fingers dug in and he began to massage tense muscles. “You mustn’t ever doubt me, love. You mustn’t doubt what you are to me.” Aragorn spoke to the nape of Boromir’s neck, wanting to impress the words right into his skin. “I love you with everything that I am.” His arms snaked around Boromir’s ribs so his hands could rub at his lover’s chest once more. Every breath that Boromir took could be felt by both of them. Heated skin grew scorching hot at the contact. Aragorn scattered kisses over the back of Boromir’s neck and licked at his earlobes.

When Boromir’s trembling became too fierce to contain, Aragorn slowly drew back from him. “Lie down. Soon now, my light.” Petting hands eased the other man flat once more. Drawing back for only a moment, Aragorn stripped off his pants, knowing what the sight of his nude body would do to Boromir. “You’re so beautiful. Let me take care of you. Let me show you what you mean to me. Lay still for me.” Using his hands and mouth, Aragorn pressed down on Boromir, kneading his chest and ribs, teasing his nipples and navel.

Boromir’s hands clenched, gathering up fistfuls of blanket. His breath was rasping in his throat and a constant shiver wracked his body, which was arching unconsciously up toward Aragorn. Any thoughts that might have been tormenting him had fled before the onslaught of pure physical sensation. When a hand cupped over Boromir’s crotch he couldn’t contain the scream that tore out of his throat. “YES! PLEASE!”

Fingers pressed, tracing the outline of Boromir’s hard shaft through the material of his leggings. Aragorn bent down to whisper in his lover’s ear at the same time he rubbed the straining fabric. “Let’s get you out of these before you soil them, love.” Hooking his fingers, Aragorn began easing the leggings down off of Boromir’s hips, slowly baring him to the warm air. “They’re awfully tight for some reason. Will you turn over for me?” Aragorn tugged at the cloth.

Eagerly complying, Boromir twisted. His hands shoved, helping to get the stubborn leggings down. “Take me,” the offer was breathless. Bracing his knees, Boromir offered himself as soon as the cloth was clear of his ankles.

“Not yet.” Aragorn’s tone soothed even as his hands stroked down the inside of Boromir’s legs. Hard calves and smooth thighs shook with anticipation under Aragorn’s fingers, but still his hands simply roamed up and down Boromir’s legs.

“When?” The word is half a sob.

“Not while you’re so tense.” Aragorn’s voice rasped, finally beginning to show the strain. Slowly, Aragorn’s fingers traced over and around Boromir’s behind, digging into the pale skin. The cheeks eased apart and Aragorn’s forefinger dipped in to stoke gently downward.

“PLEASE!”

Dusting a kiss across the curve, Aragorn released him. Crawling upward until he could whisper right into Boromir’s ear, Aragorn whispered, “You first. Turn back over, love.”

Groaning, Boromir shifted over, squirming against the blankets. His erection was dark and the tip gleamed in the low light. With a wicked grin, Aragorn attacked Boromir’s chest once again, licking and stroking his nipples and stomach. Boromir whimpered and his shaft throbbed in time with his heartbeat. Hands roamed over Boromir’s stomach and down past the hard shaft to his thighs. Aragorn deliberately avoided touching his lover’s cock, stroking the skin all around it. He let his fingers dip low to stroke the tight skin of Boromir’s balls, smiling at the noise it provoked.

“You smell wonderful.” Aragorn brushed his jaw against straining flesh, tormenting the dripping tip with his whiskered cheek. “Tell me what you want, Boromir.” His lips almost touched skin as he spoke. Aragorn’s blunt fingernails teased through curling blond hair and heated skin. “Tell me what you want me to do, and I’ll do it.”

“Fuck me,”

“Are you sure that’s what you want, love?” Aragorn’s bottom lip pressed just under the flared tip of Boromir’s shaft, causing a groan of arousal.

“Whatever you want… just do it!”

“No,” the denial in Aragorn’s voice was firm. “What do YOU want?”

“I… I just…” Boromir’s hips rolled. In an almost vicious movement he reached down, caught a handful of dark, silky hair, and tugged. “Get me off, just get me off.”

Nodding, Aragorn reached out and gently grabbed hold of Boromir’s erection to hold it steady. Drips of fluid were spilling over and dripping down. With his thumb, Aragorn rubbed the slickness over and around the head of Boromir’s cock.

“OH YES!” The hand in Aragorn’s hair tightened painfully.

With first his hands, and then his mouth, Aragorn set to worshiping the hard shaft before him. Fingers circled it firmly, stroking up and down. His tongue ran a long stripe from the base to the tip. Flesh grew slick under Aragorn’s attentions and Boromir shuddered.

Aragorn’s gaze lifted. He watched Boromir’s face as his fingers and lips played. Hips bucked and skin burned. The game went on until real strain began to show and Boromir’s pleas grew harsh.

“Just a little longer, my light.” Aragorn whispered, crawling up the body writhing underneath him. He stayed prone long enough to steal a searching kiss from Boromir’s lips, then shoved upright so he was kneeling. Reaching behind himself, one of Aragorn’s dripping hands captured Boromir’s straining erection. It took several painfully long moments to shift and align things but once the position was found, they both knew it.

Boromir hissed, his hands coming up to seize Aragorn’s hips. Aragorn had to move slowly. As slippery as Boromir’s shaft was, his own body was still unprepared for the rare intrusion, and every partial inch had to be taken in with care. Both of them were beaded with sweat and shaking by the time Aragorn settled flush against Boromir’s body.

”Don’t move,” Boromir cautioned in a weak voice. His trembling hand lifted to Aragorn’s semi-hard shaft and began to coax.

With a grunt, Aragorn fell forward. His hands landed on either side of Boromir’s head. Burning blue eyes sought out green. “I… love... YOU.” Each word was bitten off.

Boromir panted, unable to manage words as Aragorn’s body rocked slightly above him. He trembled in reaction, fisting Aragorn’s shaft harder as it grew inside his hand. Words might be beyond reach, but with every bit of willpower he possessed, Boromir tried to hold Aragorn’s burning gaze.

Their bodies twisted and strained for what felt like hours. Only when orgasm finally approached did the stare waver. Aragorn dived down to lock mouths instead of eyes. While their bodies crashed against each other, shuddering into completion, Aragorn devoured Boromir. If he could have sucked Boromir’s soul out from between his lips at that moment, he would have.

The kiss broke reluctantly, allowing them both to gasp for air. Held up by his elbows, Aragorn disentangled his body from Boromir’s with care, before letting himself collapse.

“Never doubt me, love. Doubt the stars in the sky or the progress of the seasons… but never doubt me. I… what I am now… I love… who you are now.” A weary kiss brushed Boromir’s temple. “I love you.”

Sighing, Boromir let his body roll. One arm draped over Aragorn and pulled him tight, careless of sweat or any other mess that might be between them.

*

Being an odd mixture of traditions from two different cultures, the wedding ceremony was rather longer than either one would be if done alone. Aragorn’s part in the ceremony involved escorting Aeryn and Ranian into the great hall of Meduseld. As an elder of her tribe, Aragorn was the one to pass Aeryn’s hand over to Faramir, who stood as the leader of Eomer’s tribe.

Almost everyone that Aragorn was concerned with were stuck in place for at least another half-hour. Boromir was standing as ceremonial guard. Little Ranian was now seated off to one side with Lothiriel and her ladies. Faramir was just beginning to bind Eomer and Aeryn’s wrists together. It was the best possible moment for Aragorn to fade away from the gathering and tend to other business.

With most of the inhabitants of the Golden Hall concentrating their attentions on the wedding, the further reaches of the sprawling structure were eerily deserted. Stepping carefully to prevent the sound of footsteps from giving him away, Aragorn headed toward the chambers reserved for the royal family. He couldn’t help but frown at realizing he was retracing the exact path that Denethor had taken near on ten years ago, one that ended with the destruction of Boromir’s innocence.

The door to the master suite opened without a sound. It swung inward, revealing a room that was quite unlike the memories that Aragorn had received from Denethor. Of course Eomer had made changes. His last impression of this place would have been just as horrid as Boromir’s. Eomer’s mother had died in this room. It made sense that Eomer would replace the bed especially.

Aragorn started with the bed and worked his way outward, paying extra attention to the temporary wedding decorations. The nightgown that had been laid out for Aeryn had to be tossed into the fireplace. The tingle in his fingers suggested to Aragorn that something vile had been sprinkled over the sheer material. A few candles needed to be moved to prevent fires when they burned down in a few hours. Aragorn also gathered up the open carafe of sweetened wine and the waiting cups. Both were too obviously temptations for tampering.

Toting the carafe and cups, Aragorn let himself out of Eomer’s suite. Although he hadn’t actually visited there before, Aragorn knew where Eowyn’s rooms were. It was only a short walk down the hallway from Eomer’s. Rumour had it that Eowyn had spent very little time in her own suite. Aragorn was surprised that they hadn’t just cut a doorway in the wall they shared.

Eowyn’s sitting-room was deserted. It wasn’t until Aragorn ghosted into her bedroom that he found any sign of life. A rather young servant-girl was sitting on the floor by the empty hearth, arms wrapped around her knees. Eowyn was cross-legged on her bed amid a scattering of parchments and several heavy books. The girl squeaked in surprise, causing Eowyn to look up from her studies.

“I half-expected you to come pounding on my door last night,” Eowyn’s lips pulled into a smirk. “But I suppose taking Boromir to bed and indulging yourself was more amusing than rushing to defend his rather tarnished honour.”

“I’m not here about Boromir.” Aragorn crossed the room and settled himself on the young woman’s bed without any hesitation. “I thought you might be feeling abandoned, perhaps you’d like to share a drink with me.” One of the goblets he’d taken from Eomer’s room was offered up with a smile.

A slow blink preceded Eowyn’s response. “I’m not thirsty, thank you, but do feel free to have a drink yourself.” Almost absently, she began to gather up and stack the loose papers spread over her quilt.

Snatching up the one she was reaching for, Aragorn looked over the spidery writing that covered it. It was a history from the time when the Riddermark was first given to her ancestors by one of the kings of Gondor. Discarding that sheet, Aragorn picked up another. It appeared as if she was researching the oldest laws and customs of the Riddermark, if these were fair examples of her interests.

“It has been suggested…” Aragorn leaned back, letting himself recline on Eowyn’s bed. “…that a third treaty marriage would help things along immensely.” He smiled. “Have you ever heard of Anfalas? It’s a lovely place, very peaceful… quite pastoral. Golasgil, the lord there… he’s looking for a wife for his grandson.”

That got her attention. Eowyn sat up straight, eyes blazing. “Eomer would never allow it!”

Aragorn shrugged. “Not now, perhaps not even within the next year if he were asked, but I can see it happening not long after that… once Aeryn has a child.” His tone was light. “It’s one thing to try and poison Aeryn, but I suspect once the first baby arrives Eomer’s tolerance will grow thin over the sort of games you might be tempted to play with his precious offspring. Golasgil’s grandson is young, only just turned sixteen. He could wait a year or few if need be… if it meant getting the sister of the king, even though you’re currently in a state of disfavour. Faramir might even be willing to formally re-acknowledge you… once you’re on the far side of the empire and he knows that never has to look at you ever again.”

Head shaking, Eowyn scowled at him. “Eomer loves me. There’s nothing that woman you brought here can do to change what’s between Eomer and I. She’s to be a brood mare, nothing more.”

“I was rather looking forward to this next year,” Aragorn said softly. “It would have been quite amusing, the way you would slowly become less and less important as each week progressed. I envisioned you grinding your teeth and pulling at your own hair in frustration as you realized that you were losing your grip on Eomer. I have someone in place who promised to send me descriptions of your frantic attempts to hold onto Eomer’s favour.” The empty cups were tossed aside and Aragorn let the wine fall to the floor and spill out over the gleaming wood. “The same someone who’s been slipping you draughts for the last year to ensure that you wouldn’t conceive Eomer’s child.” Climbing up onto his hands and knees, Aragorn crawled over the bed. “But you’re forcing me to alter my plans, little girl.”

Eowyn, eyes wide, retreated to the headboard, only to find herself trapped in place a moment later. “I’m not afraid of you,” she spouted out the obvious lie. “Anything you do to me… it’s just proof that I’m important… and that you have to deal with me because Boromir and Faramir are both too limp to do it themselves.”

“I could kill you,” Aragorn reached up to finger a tag of blonde hair that had fallen forward into her eyes. “But at this point in time, your murder would complicate things between Eomer and Faramir.” He frowned. “I thought about either ripping out your tongue or blinding you… partially because of how much fun that would be.”

Eowyn’s chest rose as she gathered up the breath to scream.

“Shhh…” Two fingers on her lips forestalled that reaction. “That’s just the sort of thing that has me favouring the idea of silencing you forever. Don’t tempt me, girl, or I’ll have your tongue out before anyone can reach this room.”

She deflated with a small shiver that grew more intense as Aragorn lifted his hand and settled it against her throat.

“As much as it annoys me to admit it… you, my dear Princess, require my attention. As amusing as it would be, waiting to watch you fade away is just too dangerous a policy.” Aragorn pressed gently, carefully monitoring the panic welling up in Eowyn’s features. “I think what would be best for all concerned is if you chose this time to run away from home in a fit of childish temper.” Still holding the pressure steady, waiting for Eowyn to pass out, Aragorn turned his face to look at Eowyn’s terrified serving girl. “Gather together all that your lady might need for a trip of several weeks… quickly now, or your little neck will be the next one I squeeze.”

*

The formal ceremony was just shifting into a more casual celebration when Aragorn reappeared at Boromir’s side. Sidling up close, he whispered into Boromir’s ear. “We have to leave, my love. Right now,” Aragorn prompted. “We’re not needed here and there’s something I have to tend to.” One hand lifted and Aragorn’s fingers caressed up Boromir’s cheek. “Please, my light. It’s important. We must be away as quickly as possible.”

Boromir couldn’t help but lean into the show of affection, no matter that it drew knowing smiles from the some people nearest to them and a few disapproving frowns from others. “How far ‘away’?” The question was asked in a half-sigh. “Will we be back before Faramir returns to the White City?”

“We won’t be returning to Edoras. We’re going to Anfalas… through the mountains. That’s the quickest path. Must we draw Faramir into the detail of this venture, my only love? I would rather we didn’t.” Aragorn bent close, using his softest, smokiest whisper to entice the response he wanted from Boromir. “Do I need him to write me up a letter of presentation to Golasgil, or do you know Lord Golasgil enough to smooth things over?” Aragorn continued to hold Boromir’s hand, his thumb caressing his lover’s wrist through the soft leather of long gloves.

Standing straighter, Boromir tried to shake off the distracted state of mind that Aragorn’s actions were provoking. “I’ve only met Golasgil twice, rather formally, but his youngest son, Vinyarion, spent two years in father’s personal guard. We’re well acquainted.” He licked his lips, tasting the sweat that was beginning to bead up thanks to Aragorn’s attentions.

“Wonderful.” That information drew a pleased smile from Aragorn. “Come then, love. Let us take our leave of Faramir. We can be miles away before the sun sets if we leave right away.”

Boromir let himself be drawn toward where Eomer and Faramir were standing. A frown was attempting to break out onto his face, but he held it in, not wanting to betray his unease in front of an audience at the sudden need for a long journey.

“My lord king, Prince Eomer…” Aragorn intruded on the pair by simply planting himself right at their side, inclining his head and speaking in a voice so loud that they couldn’t possibly ignore him.

“Aragorn?” Faramir acknowledged him even as Eomer glared and stepped away.

“The Captain of the White Tower and I must depart at once, my king. A situation has arisen that must be dealt with immediately.”

“What situation, my brother?” Faramir, knowing it was useless to press Aragorn for an explanation, addressed the question to Boromir instead.

Narrowed green eyes turned on Aragorn who continued to stare at the floor in a show of obviously feigned respect. The smirk tugging at the corners of Aragorn’s mouth was infuriating. Boromir’s frustration was difficult to contain, but he couldn’t explain to Faramir exactly what was going on. “It’s a matter concerning the security of Gondor, my lord. I will send details later,” Boromir lied, grasping after an explanation that he wouldn’t have to elaborate on. Damn, but Aragorn must have known that Faramir wouldn’t question his brother further after being denied once, and had played on the trust between them.

“Must you leave at once or can it wait until morning, Boromir?” A hint of pleading tinted the request.

Boromir knew how Faramir felt, this wasn’t the kind of parting he wanted from his brother. They didn’t dare express themselves in middle of the hall with the Queen, the court and all the inhabitants of Meduseld watching them. “I am sorry, my lord, but we must depart at once.”

“And when will you be returning to us, Captain?”

“When the matter is resolved,” Boromir evaded again. “I will return to the White Tower as soon as the situation allows, my king.” Each of the titles Boromir chose to employ were used quite purposefully. “I will attempt to be home in time to see your child born, my brother.”

Nodding sadly at the time frame those words had suggested, Faramir reached up to catch Boromir’s shoulder, squeezing hard. “Very well. Please be careful.” Fingers dug in as if meaning to hold Boromir in place forever.

Needing more intimacy than this extremely formal situation allowed, Boromir chose the only show that protocol seemed to allow, even though it was a rather extravagant expression of royal devotion. “My lord!” He dropped to one knee, caught Faramir’s hand and pressed a lingering kiss to it. A combination of their close proximity and the pose nearly caused Boromir’s bend head to press right into Faramir’s crotch.

Understanding the restrictions of having this leaving-taking witnessed by the Queen and court, Faramir’s thumb discreetly brushed Boromir’s lips as his hand withdrew. He felt the flick of a tongue against his skin before his hand was released. Faramir had to swallow to make his voice work properly. “Good journey, Captain.”

The gaze Boromir turned up towards Faramir was laden with affection. “Thank you, my king.” He rose slowly and stepped back.

“If you will excuse us, King Faramir…” Aragorn added a curt nod to the show, before whirling around and quickly pacing out of the hall. Boromir had to move quickly to reach Aragorn’s side before he exited the doors to the great hall.

*

A woman from the kitchens approached Faramir with a letter of explanation from Aragorn early the next morning. His choice of messengers seemed odd, but Faramir was well enough acquainted with Aragorn’s careful script to judge the missive as genuine.

The news Aragorn conveyed was preceded by a request that Faramir not share the information with Eomer until the time seemed right. Aragorn went on to write that Eowyn had run away from home in a fit of temper and that the bearer of the letter had witnessed Eowyn’s actions. Aragorn announced his intentions to chase Eowyn down but he also presented the defence that she had a head start of several hours and the very finest horses from Edoras’ stables, so he couldn’t promise that the pursuit would be effective.

Tightening his fist on the paper, Faramir looked up at the woman standing before him. “What did you see?”

She shuffled her feet and looked like she wanted to flee from his presence. “Sir?”

“Tell me exactly what you saw Eowyn doing,” Faramir elaborated.

“Oh, sorry sir. I didn’t… well…” The woman smoothed her skirts in what seemed to be a nervous action. “I was out by the stables. I was looking for a bit o’ fresh straw, y’see. There was a frightful spill and straw is just the best thing for sopping up… sorry, your lordship,” a half-hearted curtsy accompanied the apology. “But that’s not of an interest to you, I suppose. Anyway, out tears the Lady Eowyn with her girl in tow… both of them loaded down with gear. She’s complaining, loud as anything, about ‘this’ll show them’ and the two of them go into the stables.” Fingers bunched in fabric again. “Three horses, they took. One each for riding and the third was loaded up.”

Faramir’s brow furrowed. It was a rather unlikely story, knowing Eowyn. His half-sister was more likely to fight than run away when faced with trouble, but this woman told the tale convincingly enough and Faramir couldn’t see any reason she would lie. “And how is it that Aragorn found out what had happened and pulled you into things?”

“I know it ain’t my place, to be tattling on the doings of royalty, but it didn’t seem quite right… the Lady leaving right while everyone was celebrating. Still, I meant to keep it to myself,” she said earnestly. “That was… until I came back in and your majesty’s man saw me. He took one look at my face and just knew something odd was occurring. There was no denying anything to him, your lordship. It was like he was looking right inside of me. So I told him what I’d seen.” The servant grimaced. “Your majesty’s man, he took right off… didn’t come back looking for me in the kitchen for over an hour, then he dragged me into Lady Eowyn’s room. He set me to cleaning up a mess of wine on the floor while he wrote up that note I gave you.”

Faramir folded the paper to keep from crushing it.

“Yer majesty’s man was right particular. He said I wasn’t to bother anyone at the party with this, that I wasn’t to give it to your majesty until morning... and that was only if he didn’t come back and take it from me himself sometime in the night.” She shrugged. “But he didn’t, and the word is that your man’s gone off… so I brought it up, just like he told me to.”

Nodding, Faramir held up his hand for silence. “You will need to repeat all of this for Prince Eomer, but not yet.” He studied Aragorn’s messenger carefully for a long moment, wondering if she was telling him the truth. It seemed improbable that Aragorn could have recruited a member of Eomer’s staff into his own service on such short notice, but it wasn’t impossible.

“If that’ll be all then, your majesty, I’ve work in the kitchen to tend to.”

“Yes. Thank you.” As soon as she was gone, Faramir paced back over to the bed and settled on the edge of the mattress.

Lothiriel, who had been quiet through the entire interview shifted so she could lay a hand on his arm. “It’s a plausible tale, and likely the best thing to happen for all concerned.”

Turning, Faramir gazed at his wife. “So you think she’s lying too?”

A cascade of golden ringlets tumbled sideways as Lothiriel tipped her head. “Quite likely, but so long as Eomer believes that YOU are innocent of any mischief toward his sister, it hardly matters what Aragorn has done.” She met Faramir’s gaze. “It is for the purpose of situations like this one that you retain Aragorn’s services, is it not?”

Faramir’s only response was a fleeting smile. There were definite advantages to having a wife who had been raised in a court almost as large as Minas Tirith’s and trained from birth as a possible royal bride.

“Boromir will tell you everything when they come home,” Lothiriel soothed. “In the meantime, all our efforts must be put towards seeing that Eomer is content with the story as we know it and distracted from the loss of his sister by Aeryn’s presence.”

Letting out a sigh, Faramir turned to brush a kiss over Lothiriel’s forehead. “Thank you, my lady.” His thumb caressed her cheek. “You have proven to be a wondrous treasure over the last year. I hope you realize that.”

Her smile broke like dawn at the compliment. “Your praise is ever welcome, my lord. Now, if you’re prepared to face the day… you and I should see if Eomer and Aeryn will be leaving their chambers today… for I would very much like to indulge in a few silly romantic frivolities while time allows.”

Faramir heard the unspoken ‘while Boromir is away from your side’ in his wife’s tone, but if Lothiriel wasn’t going to press the issue, neither would he.

*

Boromir had only been mildly surprised when Aragorn had unrolled the large bundle on one of the five horses to reveal Eowyn had been trussed up inside. He had known something quite odd was going on as soon as they’d reached the stables. Far more gear than the two of them could possibly need had been waiting on them, as well as a girl of no more than twelve, who was bound and gagged under a blanket.

Even after removing Eowyn from her severe wrappings, Aragorn took no chances with her. She was riding with her hands bent behind her back and lashed together from elbow to wrist. Eowyn’s mount was attached to Aragorn’s by way of a long rope. The servant girl’s horse was affixed to Boromir’s, leaving her no reins with which to guide her animal, but at least the girl was no longer tied up.

The urge was there to ask Aragorn questions, but Boromir had no desire admit his ignorance of his lover’s intentions while Eowyn was glaring daggers at the both of them. The basic situation was simple enough to work out. Aragorn had decided Eowyn needed to be elsewhere and was tending to the problem. Details would have to wait until they had a moment of privacy.

Eowyn should be grateful she was still breathing, Boromir thought, but of course the foolish girl had to press her luck. The entire time they’d been riding had been filled with one taunt after another. Her fountain of abuse had eased briefly when the sun set, only to start up again when she realized that Aragorn was going to make them all ride through the night since the moon was bright and the sky was clear.

Aragorn seemed to have effectively stopped his ears against everything Eowyn had to say, but Boromir was heartily sick of her hissing and spitting. He had let his own horse fall a good distance back from Aragorn and his captive just to mute the flow the innuendo and abuse.

In contrast, the serving girl was harmless enough. The only times she’d opened her mouth the entire trip involved requesting food, water, and time to climb down and relieve herself in the bushes, all of which was voiced in timid, rather grovelling whispers.

Unfortunately, this unusual bit of isolation allowed odd musings to plague Boromir. He normally submerged these sorts of thoughts in constant activity or the companionship of Aragorn or Faramir when it was available to him. It was easy for Boromir to think that he was fulfilling all the needs of his lover, his lord and brother, and the empire when there were smiles of pleasure all around him. It was only at times like this, as the darkness and lack of useful activity pressed at Boromir, that his thoughts would grow disheartening.

As more time passed Boromir was beginning to see flaws in his abilities to lead the vast military might of Gondor, dangers threatening his brother because of his relationship with Faramir, and shortcomings he had as Aragorn’s lover. Despite Aragorn’s assurances that the girl was only spouting nonsense, Eowyn’s cutting remarks had served to underscore the most intense of his worries.

Growling out his annoyance at the turn his thoughts were taking, Boromir scrubbed at the bridge of his nose and blinked hard. The moonlight was fading and yet false dawn was still at least an hour away. He was relying almost entirely on Aragorn’s lead at this point, unable to discern the trail for himself.

All about Boromir and Aragorn so many lives seemed to pivoting on marriages and the children that came of them. Certainly Aragorn never seemed as completely human as when he was in the company of his kinswoman, Aeryn and her daughter. The change in Aragorn upon his return to Minas Tirith after going to Dunland to collect the pair had been startling to Boromir. The first time Ranian had run across the floor and thrown herself into Aragorn’s arms had been truly staggering to behold. It wasn’t that Aragorn ever indicated that he wanted children of his own, although he did occasionally mention memories of fathering and raising sons and daughters. The lines could be traced back to show that both Boromir and Aeryn were Aragorn’s offspring, in a manner of speaking. Still, Boromir couldn’t help but wonder if the time might come when Aragorn wanted a child of his own body, rather than settling for the fading recollections of Isildur’s other hosts.

There were times when Boromir felt that Aragorn’s memories of his other lives couldn’t fade fast enough. Boromir couldn’t help but feel inadequate to sustaining the attentions of someone who had seen over a thousand years pass. Aragorn had seen everything. He had travelled everywhere and enjoyed the company of more people than Boromir could ever hope to meet in his entire life.

One point of the pain dug into Boromir’s heart, even as he willed himself not to think about it. When all his remembered lives were taken into account, Aragorn’s lovers had numbered in the hundreds, perhaps even in the thousands. Boromir had lain with only three men in his entire life, a rather pitiful bit of experience by comparison. Even more, the harsh lessons he had learned from Denethor had locked away numerous sexual possibilities behind walls of fear. Boromir suspected there were a great many acts that Aragorn would enjoy indulging in, that he was being denied due to Boromir’s unwillingness. It might only be a matter of time before Aragorn grew bored and felt the desire to look for with a lover with more experience and fewer reservations.

More than once Boromir had resolved to attempt something sexually adventurous with his lover, only to lose his nerve at the last moment.
Too often he had seen Aragorn’s expression briefly cloud over as Boromir shied away from some act or another.

Their last misunderstanding was as recent as the night they had slipped away from the royal wagon-train to scout out a town. Time had been pressing at them but it had been so long since they’d had a chance to feel each other that the desire was nearly painful. The uncommon circumstances of long denied need and the need for haste had been responsible, Boromir understood that, but Aragorn’s fingers had tightened too fast and too hard into Boromir’s hair. His voice had been demanding, rather than the normal seductive coax Aragorn tended to use at the beginning of a tryst.

It wasn’t until after his own needs had been satisfied that Aragorn had realized his lover was trembling with something other than excitement. Soft words, gentler touches and kisses had soothed Boromir enough to allow his body to find the release that his panic had nearly extinguished, but the faint undercurrent of anxiety between the two of them had lasted all the way until the next evening. It had been dispelled only by an entire night of secluding themselves within their room at the inn that their explorations had discovered.

A gust of cool wind ruffled the hair about Boromir’s face, tickling his nose. Tossing his head to shake the flicker of torment away, Boromir realized that a bit of light was beginning to brighten the eastern sky. More disturbing was the realization that Eowyn was using that faint illumination to study him. Turned about in her saddle, Eowyn stared at Boromir. Whatever she saw, it caused a disturbing smile to lift the corners of her mouth.

“Eyes front,” Boromir snapped at the girl, unsure what exactly it was about her attention that made him so uncomfortable.

The order had no effect on Eowyn, but Aragorn responded instantly. Catching the lead-line to Eowyn’s horse, he tugged, bringing the animal up closer to his own.

*
Golasgil’s grandson, Galmegil

Aragorn had left the inn a fair while ago after forcibly bathing Eowyn and leaving her bound to a sturdy chair. It was an odd sight indeed. Working around the gag that Aragorn had insisted on, Eowyn’s servant was attempting to plait her lady’s hair into some style that involved braids, beads and bits of dark ribbon. A fancy gown that Aragorn had produced from one of the many bags they had dragged from Edoras was lying across the bed. Eowyn wore only a silky slip at the moment for fear the ropes would ruin the material of her court dress.

Boromir was still in his own best gear, since he had spent the morning with Lord Golasgil, two of his sons and his eldest grandchild. The meeting had been a revelation of sorts. Upon being informed that the royal bride Aragorn was offering to Golasgil’s grandson was quite unwilling and would need restraining for the first little while, all three of the Eastern men had merely chuckled and made jokes about how she wouldn’t be the first woman married into the family who had been reluctant to settle so far from the hub of the empire. The groom-in-question, a sweet-faced, blond boy named Galmegil, had looked mildly disappointed at the news he would have to take his bride against her will but he didn’t complain.

“When Eomer finds out what you’ve done he’s going spill a path of blood all the way here and back down to Minas Tirith,” Eowyn shook her head violently, spoiling a long, intricate braid that was almost finished.

Weary beyond caring for propriety, Boromir snapped at her, “Will you just shut your mouth, you stupid girl!” His fingers tightened up into a fist. “By the time it finally comes out where Aragorn has tucked you away Eomer is going to be firmly wrapped around his wife and your belly is going to be filled with Galmegil’s child. The worst that’s going to happen is that Aragorn will have to apologize and provide some proof that you’re not being mistreated up here.”

“I won’t stay here! They can’t keep me here forever… and when I get free the first thing I’m going to do is find you and Aragorn… then kill whichever of you is the happiest,” she vowed. “I’ll ruin Faramir. If it takes my entire life, I’ll see to it. I’ll kill Aragorn, destroy Faramir and any child he might bring into this world, I’ll set the forces of the Riddermark on Gondor… and then I’ll stand back and laugh at everything you ever loved turns to dust.”

Boromir lunged, knocking the chair Eowyn was tied to backwards, and nearly destroying it. The breaking of the wood allowed Eowyn a chance to struggle loose from the knots that were restraining her, but her freedom was limited. Boromir crouched over her with an expression of vivid hatred on his face. His palm dropped, covering her mouth, with one side of his hand blocking the air away from her nose as well. It was only a matter of seconds before Eowyn’s narrowed eyes widened with terror, realizing that she couldn’t breathe.

“Sir, no… please. Your majesty, no. Don’t.” Eowyn’s servant caught at Boromir’s arm and tugged ineffectively.

“You ran away into the mountains. Your horse threw you. You fell down a cliff and broke your neck.” Boromir recited the story in a dull monotone.

Eowyn’s nails clawed, breaking on the armour of his upper sleeve before finding bare flesh at his wrist.

“I won’t allow you to threaten Faramir.” Boromir’s finger shifted slightly, allowing her to drag in a shallow breath. “If you ever… ever… threaten my brother again, it will be the very last thing you do. Understand?”

Her nod was only the barest movement, restrained as she was by Boromir’s heavy hand.

“Your life is hanging by a thread, little girl. Eomer would rage at your death, but it’s almost worth killing you regardless. I’m sure we could come up with some story or another that would prevent a war that no one wants to fight. Staying here in Anfalas is your only chance. It’s this or death. The smartest thing you can possibly do is make yourself absolutely indispensable to Galmegil and his family.”

“Prince Boromir, please, you’re bruising her.” The servant’s voice was a timid plea.

“One word against Faramir… just one word...” Letting the threat hang, Boromir climbed off of Eowyn. Catching her by the hair, he dragged her back upright and tossed her onto the bed. “Now just SIT!”

Eowyn’s chin lifted in an attempted display of pride, but the pose only served to high-light the fingerprint bruises just beginning to darken around her mouth. “You’ll pay for this, Boromir,” Eowyn whispered.

“We’ll see.” Boromir shrugged and dropped onto the bench under the window, clearly conscious that she had returned to threatening him rather than Faramir.

*

“You can not be serious,” Lothiriel had to shout just a little so her voice could be heard over the splash of water against rock. The queen was sitting on a blanket far back from the thin spray of the small waterfall. Her disbelieving gaze was fixed on Aeryn.

“It’s dry here at this spot. I could make it.” Aeryn’s fingers plucked experimentally at the cliff face while she looked upward, judging the mostly vertical surface. “There’s lots of handholds.” Reaching back, Aeryn knotted her long dark hair with a quick twist.

“You’ll fall and break your neck,” Lothiriel continued to protest in an amazed tone. “Faramir! Reason with her!” Turning in place, Lothiriel appealed to the men. “Eomer, your wife is going to kill herself.”

The complaints caught Faramir’s attention, but Eomer was still frowning at the surrounding greenery and twisting a twig absently between his fingers. “Eomer, are you all right?” Faramir’s inquiry was softly spoken. Faramir had been crouching down by the side of the stream, scooping up a handful of cold water. The spot was abandoned in favour of pacing over to keep his interaction with his brother private.

“It’s taking too long.” Eomer discarded a mangled strand of bark that he had pulled free. “I don’t trust Aragorn. I’ve never trusted Aragorn.” The tattered twig was thrown violently down and Eomer turned away. “I need to go after Eowyn myself.”

“You’ve no idea where they’ve gone,” Faramir reasoned yet again, circling around to try and hold Eomer’s attention. “No one but the kitchen woman saw them leave, and she doesn’t know which direction they took. There have been no reports of any of them in the Riddermark. If Eowyn wanted you to find her… she would have made a stir amongst your people by now.”

“Aragorn has done something to her. I know it.” Eomer’s lips curled back in disgust. “I’ve told you over and over. He’s evil, Faramir. I don’t know how you can trust him with anything.”

It was a well-worn argument. Faramir reached up to touch Eomer’s face. “Would you deny that Boromir is an honourable man, brother mine? He’s with Aragorn.”

“Boromir’s allegiance is to you and to Gondor, Faramir… in that order. His honour is no protection for Eowyn.” Eomer’s brows were drawn together and angled down. “When Boromir was taken, you discarded everything to chase after him. Why shouldn’t I do the same?”

“The circumstances aren’t the same. When I left… father was on the throne and looking likely to stay there for years. Nor did I have any personal connections to hold me back.” Faramir gestured. “You have the Riddermark to care for, and you have a brand new wife.” A frown pulled at his mouth. “Who is quite likely to kill herself in the next five minutes.” Turning, Faramir shouted. “AERYN! What do you think you’re doing?”

“Climbing.” Her response was muffled, since it was spoken directly into the cliff face rather than back toward the men. One soft boot slipped briefly, before finding purchase in a crevice two tall men’s height up the incline.

“Why?” Faramir paced over, head bent back to stare up at Aeryn. She had hiked up her simple skirt and seemed to have tucked the excess material into her waistband. Her leggings were leaving nothing to the imagination.

Eomer joined his half-brother at the foot of the cliff. “I’ve climbed this before,” he observed. “When I was just a kid.” This forest dell was only a few hours ride from Edoras. It had been one of Eomer’s favourite retreats as a child. He’d been the one to suggest this place when Lothiriel had expressed the desire for an intimate picnic with just the four of them.

The wagon, a few servants and a small group of soldiers were just outside the grove, awaiting the pleasure of the two royal couples. A loud shout of distress would likely bring help if they wanted it, but Aeryn didn’t seem to be in danger.

“Do you want to follow her up?” Faramir fingered the uneven surface before them. Neither he nor Eomer wore restrictive armour today. “Is it safe for her to climb up to the top? What’s up there?” He looked upward.

“Just more trees… and a bit faster water, of course.” The bottom of the narrow waterfall was slow and deep since there was a basin at the base to collect the cascade. “I don’t know about animals though,” Eomer evaded.

“Aeryn, maybe you should come back down,” Faramir suggested. “It might not be safe up there.”

“I’m fine,” she called down. “I just want to see the top, then I’ll come right back down.”

“I’ll go up with her.” Eomer shifted his swordbelt so his weapon hung more behind him than beside him. Removing it completely simply wasn’t an option. He considered the rock-face for a breath before reaching out and digging his fingers into a niche and lifting off the ground.

“Just be careful,” Faramir cautioned before drawing away. He walked backwards until he reached the blanket his wife was sitting on.

The king and queen watched the climb, flinching occasionally when either Aeryn or Eomer seemed have trouble keeping their grip. First Aeryn disappeared over the precipice. Eomer followed her a few moments later. The sound of the voices drifted down but no words could be made out thanks to the constant rumble of the waterfall. Odds were the reverse would be true.

Lothiriel still leaned in so she could keep her voice low. “Try not to fret, my lord. If Eomer was going to run off, he would have done it by now.”

Head shaking, Faramir glared up at where the others had vanished. “This could come back to haunt us later even if Eomer doesn’t run off… especially if Eomer trusts me and doesn’t chase after Eowyn. If Eowyn is killed… thanks to my holding Eomer off he’ll never forgive me.” Faramir sighed. “I hope Aragorn knows what he’s doing.”

“I haven’t spent much time with Aragorn,” Lothiriel petted her husband’s hair where it was escaping his circlet. “Still, he seems frighteningly capable.”

Faramir straightened up as a swath of fabric blew over the top of the cliff and drifted down, caught in the odd swirls of air that the waterfall created. He was on his feet and about to shout for the guards that were lingering just within earshot of their position when he realized what exactly the material was. Aeryn’s dress landed not to far away. A bright sparkle of laughter cascaded down with the silvery water, suggesting all was well up on top of the cliff.

“Sit, my lord.” Lothiriel’s voice was light with amusement. “It seems our companions will be a while. “Would you care to share some sliced peaches with me?”

Blowing out the panicked breath he had sucked in, Faramir let his legs fold and he sat down beside his wife.

*

Boromir was pacing the length of the chamber that they had been told to wait in. Every few moments he would pause to peer through the door to see if Golasgil’s family was ready for them. Boromir’s entire frame was tight with tension and a frown marked his expression.

“You may be able to force me through this farce of a marriage ceremony…” Eowyn glared down at Aragorn’s fingers. They were wrapped around her wrist. “But you won’t be here forever.”

“You stupid little girl.” Aragorn shook her lightly, dragging her further into the corner. His hiss was low, not intended to be shared with Boromir. “You have no grasp of the gift I’m offering you.”

“GIFT?” The exclamation was cut off as Eowyn’s wrist was twisted in warning.

“Yes, gift.” Aragorn’s eyes narrowed. His voice was a bare whisper. “Think about it, you silly child. If you had stayed at Edoras you’d never be anything more than Eomer’s shameful secret. He was under strict instructions to never allow you to fulfil your potential… under risk of losing the Riddermark.”

Eowyn scowled, but she kept silent.

“Here in Anfalas no one will place any limitations on you. You’re the sister of the king to these people. There’s no tarnish on that title here. You’ll be the wife of their future lord as well.” His tone was seductive, coaxing the reactions he wanted out of Eowyn. “Golasgil’s wife is dead. The heir’s wife is a brown sparrow of a woman who most people ignore. You could shine here, Eowyn. You could own this court and the people of this region if you wanted to.”

“Deceitful beast. This is just another one of your tricks. A web of pretty lies designed to keep me quietly exiled.” She struck at Aragorn’s grip without success. “I’ve no desire to whore myself out just to live in a velvet adorned prison.”

“But that’s all Edoras was,” Aragorn reasoned, taking no offence at her attempt at escape. “The boy you’re marrying is comely enough and rather naïve. He’ll be a mere toy in the hands of someone so talented as you, my lady. You’re a court raised Princess among farmers and fisherman. This is your chance to take control of your own life, girl. This is a place you could grow into your potential.”

It’s a trick.” Eowyn’s eyes darted to Boromir, and then back again. “You’ve no reason to want me happy.”

“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong.” Aragorn’s hold on her eased. “I’ve every reason to want you to find contentment in a place far away from both Edoras and Minas Tirith. Of course I could just kill you.” He smiled and reached up to brush a thumb over one livid cheek. “But I feel as if I owe you for giving Boromir to me.” Aragorn’s gaze shifted to his lover and his stare all but burned.

“And how do you know I won’t fashion Anfalas into a threat?” Eowyn tested.

One of Aragorn’s shoulders hitched. “In the first place, there’s only so much that can be done with a province full of farmers and fishermen compared with the might of the empire.” He turned his full attention back on Eowyn. “In the second… don’t imagine that I won’t be watching your progress, girl. Make what you will of your life here. I wish you all happiness.” Aragorn paused. “But at the first sign of a threat toward Boromir, Faramir, or Gondor… I will show no mercy, and I have been cultivating agents everywhere.”

Eowyn’s gaze seemed to measure Aragorn.

“We’ll be staying two weeks to see you settled in,” Aragorn pressed on. “I’d like to take letters away with me… one of which should be to Eomer from you… assuring him that you’re safe and content.” He stepped back, allowing Eowyn more freedom of movement. Reaching into his jacket pocket, Aragorn withdrew a necklace and pendant. “Be careful with this trinket, my lady. One of the edges of the jewel seems to be a bit sharp. It might draw blood enough to put a nasty stain on the bridal sheets if it were pulled across sensitive skin, like the inside of your thigh.” He held it out in offering. “Do yourself a favour and use it carefully, for I would be vastly disappointed in you if I found out that you had attempted to employ it on young Galmegil’s throat.”

Eowyn let the sparkling blue stone dangle from Aragorn’s hand for a full minute before reaching up to snatch it away.

“It’s time!”

Boromir’s exclamation made Eowyn jump. His look of worried expectation in her direction was a slight sop to her injured pride. Boromir, at least, seemed wary of her actions even if Aragorn did look smugly confident.

“As your eldest brother,” Aragorn began, “It would be the right thing to do if you would take Boromir’s arm, Princess Eowyn. It’s only suitable that a young lady of your station in life be escorted by the Captain of Gondor’s armies.”

The choice was upon her whether to go into this kicking and screaming all the way, or if she should play the game that Aragorn was suggesting. Testing the men’s patience, Eowyn stole another long pause before padding across the floor to accept Boromir’s silk and chainmail encased arm. “I’m not promising anything,” she informed Aragorn in a pinched tone.

“I’m not asking for a promise, Princess, merely for you to consider all your options.” Aragorn fell into place behind the half-siblings.

Boromir looked from one to the other in confusion, but when a servant yanked the door before them wide open, his expression went blank. Years of court life had trained him not to give anything away in front of an audience.

*

Hours could go by where Boromir would forget why he was in Anfalas. Locked in the darkness of the guest suite with Aragorn, shivering under his lover’s attentions, nothing else mattered. Riding through the countryside or inspecting settlements, farmlands and fishing villages with one of Golasgil’s sons was a welcome distraction. Testing himself against Anfalas’ militia was a complete break from thinking. Still, Boromir always had to eventually return to the keep and see Eowyn sitting at the dining table.

Boromir kept waiting for the explosion, but it wasn’t happening, which only made him more worried. Eowyn actually seemed to be enjoying herself. She was the centre of attention. Not only was her new husband Galmegil, providing her with a rapt audience, but she was also had Lord Golasgil’s interest. The old man appeared to be enchanted by Eowyn’s charm as well as her tales of far off lands.

Eowyn hadn’t taunted Boromir since the morning of the wedding. In fact, except for expected social interactions, Eowyn was ignoring her half-brother entirely. Boromir couldn’t help but suspect that a dangerous motive was behind the sudden change in Eowyn’s mood.

Aragorn settled into the chair beside Boromir as the formal part of the dinner dissolved into a time for entertainment and camaraderie. He leaned in but held back from making real contact with Boromir’s suddenly aware body. “I spoke to Vinyarion,” Aragorn referred to the Lord’s youngest son. “He’s more than delighted to accompany us back to Minas Tirith. He wants to take up a permanent position in the army. There’s no need for him here at home.” Aragorn smiled. “We can send him on to Edoras with tidings for Eomer. It will greatly ease Eomer’s mind to speak with his new brother-by-marriage.”

“Aye.” Boromir nodded absently. They were due to depart the day after tomorrow. “I can’t help but fear we’re leaving a snake in a henhouse, Aragorn.” Boromir watched as a trilling laugh broke out of Eowyn. “I warned Lord Golasgil as best I could about her nature, but I don’t believe he took my words to heart.”

“Golasgil is no fool, Boromir,” Aragorn soothed. “Nor are we abandoning Anfalas. The guard here looks to Minas Tirith and if anything untoward were to happen, Captain Durastor would have a messenger on the road to the capitol immediately.” Under cover of the table and shadows, Aragorn smoothing a steadying caress across Boromir’s leg. “Shall we follow the coast home or will we be travelling overland, my Captain?” He shifted the topic.

“The coast.” Boromir’s full attention turned completely away from Eowyn and locked on Aragorn at the physical contact. “I think we should visit Dol Amroth,” he hesitated, “…though I am eager to return to Faramir’s side.”

“Your duties as Captain challenge your wishes as Faramir’s… brother,” Aragorn put his lover’s conflict into words.

Boromir nodded, and then sighed. “I suppose it will be easier to wait for our reunion than it would be to leave his side again too quickly. We will take the longest path home. I need to show myself at every opportunity during the trip.” Lips pursed. “We should send Vinyarion ahead on the swiftest path, however. I’ll compose a missive for Faramir. He’ll want an explanation of Eowyn… and Vinyarion will need an introduction. Faramir won’t likely recall him from his time in father’s service.”

“A wise choice.” Aragorn bent close. “I definitely don’t object to having you to myself during the trip home. I would have us share a room each night, my light. With only the two of us… the request will seem more natural. Vinyarion’s company would have skewed the situation.”

Another burst of bright laughter from Eowyn tugged at Boromir’s attention, but the turning of his head halted at a touch and a whisper from Aragorn. “Come back to our rooms, my love. I want to feel you in the back of my throat.” Fingers tormented. “I am dying of need, my light. I want you naked in my arms.”

“Aragorn…” The name was a strangled protest. “Not here.” Their relationship might not be a protected state secret, but Boromir knew better than to flaunt their affair in front of other people. Warrior bonds weren’t unknown in the army, but they were not an acceptable situation within courtly society.

“I want you. I want you now, Boromir.” Aragorn growled, his breath teasing against his lover’s cheek.

Boromir’s breath caught and he very nearly whimpered aloud. His head was nodding out his consent before his mind had even processed the request.

“Come away, my light.” Aragorn caught Boromir’s hand, pulling him upright. A few people turned to look at the pair, but Aragorn’s fierce glare had every single one of them dropping their eyes or looking away. Daring greatly, he leaned in and continued to whisper obscenities into Boromir’s ear all the way out the door, keeping his lover happily oblivious of the surroundings.

*

Eowyn was still sitting at the writing desk in her’s and Galmegil’s room when Aragorn and Boromir arrived to take their leave of her. She was only half-wrapped in a dressing gown and it was clear that Eowyn wore nothing underneath the blue silk.

“I didn’t bother sealing my letter to Eomer.” Two sheets of thin paper were indicated. “Since I’m quite sure that you’re going to read it no matter what I do.” An expression of cool distain was on her pretty face. “In fact, I expect you’ll end up rewriting it and changing half of what I’ve told him anyway.”

Aragorn stepped up to take the letter from her. “Yes, that’s quite likely,” he admitted before folding the papers and tucking them inside his jacket. “I’d ask if you had notes for anyone else, but we all know that you have no one else.”

“Beast.” The insult was without heat, as if Eowyn were merely following along as expected of her. “I stand by every one of my actions.” Turning in the chair, she glared first at Aragorn, and then she pinned Boromir with her vivid blue eyes. “The way it was… you would have made an unremarkable king,” Eowyn announced without shame. “And if father had continued to mould you, by the time he died of old age you would have been a pathetic, broken creature and an atrocious sovereign.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Boromir upper lip curled and he turned his gaze away to avoid both the sight of her, and Eowyn’s words. “Nothing you say means anything.”

“DON’T YOU DARE IGNORE ME!” Her voice rose and Eowyn stood, shoving the chair back. “If you’re going to leave me out here in the middle of nowhere to rot… at least I want my say first.” Her hands clenched into fists. “Every one of us knows that Faramir is the only choice to sit on the throne of Gondor. I was right to put him there,” Eowyn snapped. Angry colour darkened her face, throat and bared breasts. “Father was a monster. You were best off away from him… even if you had died. But you didn’t have die, did you? You lucked into Aragorn’s affections. I saved you! You should be thanking me, brother-mine.” She used the term of affection like a striking blade. “Boromir, the golden prince… who always got the best of everything. You got the best room, the best horses, and the adoration of everyone. You even got to keep your mother longer than the rest of us. Everyone wanted to be with you… especially our father.”

Boromir whirled on her. “Do you think I WANTED what he did to me? Are you honestly that stupid?”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” She practically spat. “But it’s not like you were defenceless. You had a sword. You had every opportunity. You’re the oldest. You weren’t a child, not like us!” Eowyn’s voice was almost hysterical. “You were supposed to protect the rest of us, to protect Faramir. You could have stopped him if you really wanted to. You could have saved us all. You could have fixed everything before it got so awful if you were just willing to risk your place as Gondor’s greatest treasure… but no! So someone had to fix things… and it cost me EVERYTHING!”

“That’s enough, Eowyn.” Aragorn held up his hand for silence.

Reeling from the unexpected attack, Boromir turned on his heel and strode out of the room without saying a word in response.

Eowyn’s lips pressed into a line and she frowned at Aragorn. “You’ve used me again, haven’t you?” She reasoned out once her breath had returned to normal. “You’ve had me cut him open so you can see to bleeding out the poison.”

A level stare was Aragorn’s response.

“You owe me!” Eowyn threw herself back down into the desk chair.

“And I am seeing to the debt,” he answered. “I’ll be back to check on you in a year, my lady. Is there anything you would like me to bring you?”

Her chin lifted. “You could bring me my brothers,” she suggested. “I’ll take either one, Faramir or Eomer.” Eowyn swallowed. “They’re all that ever mattered to me.”

“That might change,” Aragorn mused, “But I’ll see what I can do none-the-less.” His head bowed briefly in a show of respect before he withdrew from Eowyn’s presence.

*

They were hours away from the manor before Boromir broke his pondering silence. “Is she right, Aragorn?” There was a rather meek quality to his voice. He kept his face turned down, rather than looking over at his lover.

“Eowyn?” Aragorn prompted without answering the question.

“Mama never asked for anything else,” Boromir began. “The only thing she ever asked of me was that I should take care of Faramir. When he was born… all the time he was little… and the last time I saw her, Mama trusted me with keeping Faramir safe and happy. The last thing she ever said to me… she made me promise to take care of Faramir.” The reins of his horse twisted around his fingers. “And I have tried. From the day he was born I’ve tried my hardest to fulfil that promise.”

Aragorn’s head cocked to one side. “That’s a rather daunting task to lie at the feet of a mere child, my light.”

The comment raised Boromir’s face. His eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

One of Aragorn’s shoulders twitched.

“Sometimes I think she knew right from the start.” Boromir frowned. “I think she knew she wouldn’t live to see us grown and so she had to make sure we had each other.” A long breath hissed out. “It didn’t happen suddenly, her dying, nothing around mama ever happened suddenly… it was only when father descended upon us that things would move in jerks and startlements.” Boromir’s lips pushed together. “Then she was gone and it hurt so much, but I didn’t have time to… I had to take care of Faramir. Father began packing up for the trip to Rohan. We were told he was going to fetch that other woman and her children… that he was going to bring them into our home.” He paused. “I thought, at least while he was gone we’d have time together… time to adjust. I’d have time with Faramir.”

One dark eyebrow lifted. A sound tinged with realization escaped Aragorn. “Denethor never told you that you were leaving, did he, Boromir?”

“Everything was prepared while Faramir and I were at morning lessons. We were called to the courtyard to bid father farewell. We’d done it hundreds of times before.” Boromir’s expression was distant. “But then everything suddenly went insane. One of his teachers grabbed Faramir and one of father’s guards took hold of my arm. He pulled me over to a horse and told me to mount up. Neither of us realized what was going on until it was too late.” His breathing was unsteady. “We’d never been apart before… ever.”

“You took it badly?” Aragorn pressed when the silence stretched too long.

“Faramir started screaming. He kicked and fought. Two of them had to hold him still. I could see their fingers digging into his arms.” Boromir swallowed. “I shook free… tried to run to him. Someone knocked me down, jumped and grabbed my legs. Soldiers dragged me backward, dragged me away from Faramir, back to the horse. There was blood. Not mine. I found out later I broke bones. Fingers, an arm, some ribs.”

Aragorn had stifle a grim smile at the picture his mind created of a fifteen-year-old Boromir fighting like a wild-cat against guards who didn’t dare hurt the crown prince.

“Then father was there,” Boromir’s voice faltered. “He looked disgusted. He ordered them to hold me still.” Green eyes blinked slowly. “He pinched my nose and covered my mouth. I think he spoke to me, but I couldn’t hear him. I panicked. I thought he was going to kill me for acting up. I think I wet myself… and then everything went grey.” Boromir’s hands were white with a lack of circulation. “He knows, father does. He knows exactly how long he can take my air away without killing me. That was the first time. He did later other ways… with bath water, ropes, and cloth.”

“Eowyn is right.” The reins loosened and colour flooded back to the skin of Boromir’s hands. “I should have killed him on the trip to Rohan. I was a fool. I could have saved everyone all they went through if I’d just killed him then. He threatened to have Faramir beaten if I didn’t behave, but I see now… he wouldn’t have been able to do it. I should have realized it then. I should have stopped him right at the start. It was my fault… everything horrible that’s happened since. It’s all been my fault.”

“You’re a man grown now, Boromir.” Aragorn cut in, his whisper was silken. “You know the way politics work now. What would have happened if you’d killed him?”

“It would have fixed everything,” Boromir mumbled.

“No… follow it through, my love,” Aragorn insisted. “Treat it like a history lesson. The fifteen-year-old crown prince kills the king. Follow the line of it, Boromir. The king is dead. The under-aged heir murdered him. Tell me what happens next.”

Blinking, Boromir lifted his face. His horse came to a halt as he stared across at Aragorn. “It’s high treason. I would have been tried and executed… but it shouldn’t have mattered. I should have been able to accept that for Faramir’s sake.”

“Ah…” Aragorn nodded. “So the only person that Faramir ever loved or could trust would have been executed, likely burned at the stake… and Faramir would have had to have witnessed it as the new head of the empire.” The flatness of Aragorn’s tone made the words all the more chilling. “So now we have Faramir, a timid, traumatised ten-year-old in charge of the largest empire in the world. He’s miserable, isolated and unable to trust anyone. No one cares about him. Faramir’s successors are two other children, both far away from the capitol and completely unknown to anyone. I see two likely results, don’t you, my lord Captain.”

“A child can’t govern. One of the lords would rule through him, at least until he came of age.”

“That would be the best result. Tell me the worst,” Aragorn prompted. “I know you can envision in. You’re no political novice. Tell me.”

Boromir shivered. “Children die easily. With all three of them gone the line would have to backtrack…” He paused, eyes closing as he thought it through, “… four generations to find another branch of the family, back to the last time the king had a younger brother.” His eyes opened. “Back then forward again to…”

“The line of Tarhan of Ethring,” Aragorn finished for him. “I’ve met the lord of Ethring. He’s not the kind of man you would want to have control over Faramir’s… or Gondor’s fate.”

Boromir’s brow furrowed Tardarian of Ethring was a sour, grasping man. It always seemed to Boromir as if Tardarian’s face pained him every time he had to smile for the royal family. He’d grown even more objectionable since the marriage of his daughter to Boromir had fallen through.

Nudging his mount, Boromir urged it into a walk once more. His hands began twisting with the reins again. “But later on…” he continued after they had ridden a short way.

“Later on?” Aragorn paced his lover.

“I never fought back,” Boromir said softly. “I stopped even hesitating when father… wanted something.” His shoulders hunched. “Sometimes I think… sometimes…” His gaze was fixed off in the distance, carefully avoiding Aragorn.

“There’s nothing… absolutely nothing that you can tell me that will ever change what I feel for you, love. I saw it all when we were together in Barad-dur. I know every secret you thought you had… but I suspect you need to say it aloud. Don’t you?”

Boromir’s face tipped up, lifting to soak in the sun’s rays. His eyes were tightly closed. “That’s right. You saw everything,” he repeated the information as if trying to make the idea penetrate. His throat worked on the words long before they emerged. “Did I, Aragorn… did like it?”

The childlike tone of the question cut through Aragorn’s innards as surely as a sword’s strike, but he was careful not to let his reaction show, knowing Boromir would misunderstand if he caught it. “Don’t you know?”

Gold hair shook, glinting in the sunshine. “Father said I liked it, that I must have or I wouldn’t have spilled for him. I did, after the first year or so… almost every time.” When Aragorn didn’t respond after long moments, Boromir continued. “It wasn’t anything like it is with you… or how it is with Faramir… but my body responded.” He sighed. “Eowyn said…” Boromir looked over finally, demanding with his solemn expression, that Aragorn share his opinion.

“There is no way you could have taken Denethor down without besmirching yourself, my light. You don’t have the right mindset for undetected murder. The killing would have been obvious to everyone, thereby disqualifying you from the succession. Faramir was barely ready for the throne when it was finally thrust upon him,” Aragorn declared. “It is only because he has your support. Your reputation is invaluable to him, tarnished or not… and he has my rather, unique talents, as well. It is because of us that he was able to secure the empire. The army follows you, my lord Captain.”

Aragorn’s mouth pushed into a grim line and he guided his horse over so he could catch hold of Boromir, halting them both once more. “As to how your body reacted to Denethor’s attentions…” Aragorn’s fingers had to bunch into blond hair to keep Boromir from shying away. “There are ways to make any body react, regardless of how the person feels. Given an hour and a complete lack of care for my subject’s emotional well-being… I can make ANY man or woman’s body respond to me, but it wouldn’t mean anything. Denethor had a year to learn how to make your body betray you.”

Boromir shivered. His eyes were wide and locked to his lover’s. “Aragorn.” The name whispered out as a vaguely terrified gasp.

“My own… my precious Boromir.” Aragorn’s touch gentled, stroking down until he was cupping the other’s cheek. “Is there any reason in the wide-world that you should take Eowyn’s opinion of you to heart… over mine or Faramir’s?”

“No, but... ” Boromir leaned into the caress stroking up his jaw.

“Shhh…