Faramir stopped
at the large wooden door in front of him, unsure of how he had reached
there at all. He had meant to go to the gardens, but he appeared to
have lost his way and reached his brother’s rooms instead. This
was what he got for quaffing down so much ale at dinner, instead of
eating the meal he had been provided.
The ale had been
a gift sent by his uncle in Dol Amroth. He had come of age today. It
was meant for his celebration and therefore a large quantity had been
sent and a sufficient helping set out for the evening meal. But he had
been alone at supper that evening. And had ended up imbibing ale meant
for two, perhaps more, leaving his meal barely touched, and contemplated
the day that had gone by.
The day he had come
of age.
Faramir being the
younger son had never expected a coming of age celebration along the
lines of that held for his brother. Boromir, five years ago. Boromir
was heir to the Stewardship of Gondor, and accordingly the day had been
a joyous one. Faramir could still remember how Boromir had entered the
throne room in full regalia and been greeted by the lords and captains.
And then he had taken his oath, and been presented a sword and a horn
by his father, and assigned his lieutenancy. Their father had looked
so happy and proud.
Faramir too had
felt proud. He had looked at his brother, standing there, resplendent
in Gondor’s colours, the insignia of the White Tree emblazoned
proudly across them, a handsome and dashing figure, every inch the man
that Faramir loved. When he had turned to smile at him, and then strode
over and hugged him, Faramir had felt almost idiotically pleased to
be acknowledged, and to be part of the celebration.
He had had no celebration.
His father had called him in the morning, made him repeat his oath of
fealty and brusquely informed him that a new set of weaponry and armour
had been ordered for him at the armoury, and that he should be prepared
in another two weeks to join the Ithilien Rangers. Then he had reprimanded
him for arriving late, and subjected him to a lengthy lecture on what
was expected of him in Ithilien, his very tone indicating that he thought
Faramir incapable of achieving just that.
Then he had been
dismissed, and the day had deteriorated from there. It rained all through,
a steady annoying downpour that refused to let up until after sunset.
Boromir was to have
arrived that morning but a messenger had ridden in with news that his
brother’s company had been waylaid by Orcs while returning from
Osgiliath and would therefore be delayed. He had assured them that Boromir
was unhurt but Denethor and Faramir both were worried. Denethor had
summarily dismissed him, ordering him to summarise the reports that
the various commanders had brought in, a tiring and thankless job, for
it involved a great degree of cross-checking and verification. The summary
had been accepted without even a word before lunch.
After the meal,
he had wandered through the citadel, wondering when Boromir might arrive,
and his thoughts too had wandered.
Boromir had left
to join his company five years ago and somewhere in the lonely days
and nights that followed, when he had nothing to do but study and train
and attempt unsuccessfully to ignore his father’s criticism or
sometimes, even his hand, Faramir had come to realise that he loved
his brother. And it was not just a brotherly love.
Now, five years
later, he found himself resenting his brother for not being here in
Minas Tirith today. Boromir had said he would come. He had assured him
that nothing would keep him away. But then a renewed spate of Orc attacks
in Ithilien had ensured that his dear brother now camped out somewhere
across the river, fending off those fell creatures.
And Faramir sat
alone in Minas Tirith.
When news came that
Boromir would not be able to make it until early the next morning, he
decided to call it a day, and made for the dining room, for a meal with
his father, thinking that even his silent, uncommunicative company would
be better than none on a day that was meant for rejoicing, only to be
informed he would be eating alone. Denethor was in the Tower, and would
sup alone. Faramir had dismissed the servants and grabbing the ale made
for his own chambers, where he had drunk more than he should have. Unwilling
to sleep in the musty confines of his rooms, he had decided to take
a walk to clear his head.
And so he found
himself in front of his brother’s chambers somehow, wearing nothing
more than his nightshirt and slippers, shivering a little for the hallways
were draughty.
He felt drowsy and
rather light-headed, a little voice at the back of his head telling
him he could expect no less given the amount he had drunk today. He
pushed the door open and shuffled into the room, ignoring the loud creaking
sound the wood made. Had he been even a little more sober, he would
have been quieter. His father’s study and rooms were in the adjoining
hallway, and the Steward often stayed awake late into the night. He
would hardly be pleased to find his younger son wandering through the
citadel in a somewhat inebriated state.
Boromir’s
room had been tidied for is arrival, fresh sheets spread over the bed,
their pristine whiteness gleaming in the moonlight as the clouds outside
parted for a brief second.
He walked over to
the window, and stood there awhile, his eyes drifting towards the Tower
of Ecthelion for a fraction of a second before the moon vanished behind
thick clouds. He could make out the light right at the top, and deduced
his father was still awake there.
He looked back at
the bed, then at the room, at the assortment of items that spoke so
clearly of his brother. Pieces of his old armour, the sword he had used
as a child, a helmet that no longer fit him, a few books on military
strategy, and other odds and ends. He wandered through the room, picking
up each item, holding them in his hands, caressing them, wondering if
he could smell his brother in them, or even perhaps get the feel of
him from them.
He could never resent
Boromir for long. Not for not being there today, not for being the one
on whom all their father’s attention and devotion seemed to be
centred, not for being elder, stronger, and taller. He loved him too
much for that.
He loved him, he
had realised that so very long ago.
And now he stood
in his room, seeking some feel of him, for he found he craved just his
touch this day. It would be all the celebration he desired were his
brother to grab him in his arms and give him what he wanted.
He thought he’d
lie there a while. Boromir might return early in the morning. Or perhaps
he could sleep there.
Letting the ale
think for him, he sank onto the bed and lay over the sheets. The cushions
smelt of Boromir, he decided excitedly, that soft musky odour he always
had. He slipped his hands under his nightshirt, letting the garment
ride up, and felt his body in the dark, touching himself everywhere,
feeling his sharp bony contours, and wondered if his somewhat gawky
appearance might seem unappealing.
He moved his hand
down, and began stroking himself, his eyes half-closed murmuring Boromir’s
name all along.
He must have fallen
asleep, or perhaps merely drifted away for he never realised that he
was with someone else until he realised someone was leaning over him.
He was still murmuring his brother’s name.
*Boromir has come,*
his mind responded to the garbled sounds drifting in and out of his
inattentive ears.
“Boromir,”
he murmured aloud, “I was waiting for you.”
He felt the damp
sheets under him, the stickiness in his hand, and made to turn around,
his vaguely confused mind trying to urge him to think of an explanation
for his presence.
The next moments
were unclear. He thought he heard his brother’s voice suggesting
he arise, and he heard himself responding otherwise, begging to be allowed
to lie there, and to have Boromir with him, all the while, his face
lying in the pillows for he was still tired out.
“Come, lie
with me tonight, brother,” he murmured.
The weight descending
on him assured him his words had been heeded.
He was hushed gently
and quietly, and then he felt the touch of skin on his bare skin as
his nightshirt was pushed further up. He barely had time to realise
what was happening before he felt strong, callused hands touch him.
They removed his hand from his groin, and stroked him lightly, before
flying all over the rest of his body.
He could barely
believe it!
*It is a dream,*
he told himself, *It is a dream.*
It was what he had
always dreamt of, each lonely night.
“Boromir,”
he murmured as he felt the hands roam over his bare skin, touching his
bony contours with feather-light touches. He tried to move his head,
but found a hand descend onto the back of his neck, rubbing it gently,
and at the same time effectively pinning him in place. He kept his arms
limply stretched out on either side content to just feel this nearness
he had always craved.
Boromir was taller
and heavier, but he’d never before realised how much more so.
The days of fighting must have made him bulkier, from the days when
he used to straddle Faramir so during their impromptu wrestling bouts
that he could never win.
He felt the hands
run over the marks left over from the last beating his father had given
him, a mere two weeks ago, for being late for a state dinner after his
language lessons. He felt each long stripe left by the leather belt
being fingered, and stiffened. It did not hurt but the memory of that
and other such experiences did. The humiliation of being treated like
one who constantly needed correcting threatened to overwhelm him, but
thankfully the fingers moved away.
They descended to
his buttocks, following its rounded contours. He felt himself squeezed
lightly and whimpered. The squeeze tightened, and he almost yelped,
but the hand on his neck pressed his head down muffling the sounds.
He felt the cold metal of a ring on his suddenly over-sensitive skin.
The hand continued pinching and squeezing his bare ass so hard he was
sure he would bruise but then suddenly a kiss landed between his shoulder
blades, to be followed by more, interspersed with little licks.
Faramir was not
sure what to feel. The pinches hurt and almost made him feel like a
serving maid in the taverns in the lower circles, but at the same time
that very notion seemed very erotic to him. And the touch of the soft,
wet lips on his skin was sending him into raptures.
This was his brother,
he thought to himself. The one man who could send his heart spiralling
even in his dreams.
This was Boromir
who had chosen to do this to him. Who chose to touch him so, to mark
him, to make love to him.
The hand suddenly
stopped pinching and slid between the soft mounds of his buttocks, the
fingers running slowly down, before stopping at his entrance. They danced
lightly over the puckered ring of muscles, and Faramir felt a jolt run
through him. He nearly screamed.
This was no dream,
he knew. It was real. Boromir was here with him.
“Take me,”
he begged loudly through the pillows, “Please, Boromir, take me
now. Make me yours. Yours to command at will.”
He was hushed, a
strange non-committal sound. He heard the sound of spitting, and felt
the excitement course through him. He had read about how men made love
to each other, and now he would experience it himself, and he would
get it from the one man he loved more than anyone else. His legs were
spread apart by the hands on him, stretched wide, and he automatically
pushed his hips up suggestively.
A wet finger slipped
into his untried opening, slowly but surely squeezing past the tight
ring of muscle. The touch was swift and brisk. He resisted instinctively
but then forced himself to relax to welcome the intrusion. It hurt.
He had been expecting the pain, and had tried to mentally prepare himself
for it, but it still hurt. But the thought that it was Boromir above
him sustained him enough. He could tolerate this, he thought to himself,
as the long digit pushed further in, edging its way through the narrow
channel. He lay passive, unsure of what was required from him, trying
to get used to the feeling of this most intimate gesture. Then the finger
withdrew, and he whined. His backside stung as never before but the
feeling of emptiness hurt even more. But almost immediately, more fingers
slid in, their twisting movement widening the channel. He forced himself
to relax as they dug in deeper and deeper, his excitement increasing
with each push, the pleasure he felt beginning to override the pain.
He screamed with
joy when the fingers had found what they sought. A mere brush over the
little gland inside of him and he had felt a feeling as he had never
felt before. He found himself breathing heavily, as his scream died
down to a garbled delirious outpouring.
“Gods, Boromir,
do it again. That was wonderful. Take me now. Now,” he found himself
mumbling loudly. He tried to turn around but he was still pinned in
place.
He was still shivering
from excitement when he felt his hips being raised higher and the wet
head of a pulsing erection near his entrance. As if in a dream, he felt
it push into him, straining his stretched muscles so much, he almost
cried, but whether from pain or pleasure he could not tell. He could
hear the grunts over him, he could feel the heavy weight of a body over
him, the stinging sensation shooting through his entire backside, but
he ignored it all, and pushed himself in tandem with the bulging shaft
riding through him.
“Harder!”
he urged, “Take me hard. Make me yours. Mark me as yours!”
When his sweet spot
was hit once again, he lost all coherent thought for a few brief seconds,
so great was the exhilaration bursting through him.
“Boromir!”
he cried out.
He felt the cock
withdraw from inside him, and was about to protest when suddenly it
was thrust back into him, hitting him yet again and again and again.
He too found himself rocking in tandem, the excitement lacing the grunts
above him telling him his partner was deriving as much pleasure out
of this as he was.
“Boromir,”
he murmured over and over.
They began to rock
faster, and then he felt his muscles clench around the huge erection
inside of him. He felt the sticky wetness shoot out inside of him, a
burst of warm liquid that began to pool within his tight channel before
trickling out and dripping down his inner thighs. The sensation sent
his unattended erection near release. To his utmost relief, a hand snaked
around his waist and squeezed him. It was all he needed, before he spurted
the creamy liquid out onto Boromir’s bed, coating the sheets with
it.
Boromir!”
he screamed yet again.
He could barely
think. He barely realised that his head was no longer held down, that
the weight had lifted of him, or that his partner had pulled out of
him quite quickly, almost painfully so. He just lay there panting heavily,
ignoring the stickiness all over his lower body; his mind fogged from
what he felt must be his happiest moment to date. He even felt more
sober than he had earlier.
He felt the weight
lift of him and then he felt himself being turned around, his leaden
muscles protesting just a bit as he was rolled over a little forcefully.
He sighed. Outside the clouds parted yet again letting a single shaft
of moonlight through.
“Oh Boromir,
I love you so much,” he murmured, before opening his half- closed
eyes, and gazing into his father’s face looming over him, as moonlight
filtered into Boromir’s room.
Faramir stared.
He simply stared. He lay there on his back now, covered in marks and
bruises, on Boromir’s bed, his nightshirt drawn up to his armpits,
the sheets in disarray around him, his own release pooling under him,
his father’s naked body straddling him, his wrists held down by
strong hands pinning him in place.
He opened his mouth,
but no sound came. His mind seemed to be working incredibly slowly.
Denethor was smiling at him, he realised, the sneering, curling smile,
especially reserved for him. The one that signalled an upcoming thrashing.
His gaze travelled across the older man’s body, taking in the
dripping member now hanging limp, the wet mouth, the strong hands. And
then his eyes drew back to the shaft that he realised had been the one
inside him.
Slowly, very slowly,
that thought ingrained itself.
It had been Denethor
all along.
Denethor, not Boromir.
“That was
good, Faramir,” Denethor spoke finally, his voice low and soft,
almost pleased, “Quite good. You are fairly talented, even if
it be only as a slut.”
He stared back.
His heart was beating furiously, he was terrified. But Denethor did
not seem angry. He seemed, almost oddly, pleased. He felt one wrist
being released and watched as Denethor raised his hand and brought it
towards his face. He lay, unable to move, not even so much as flinch.
Denethor gently stroked his face, from hairline to mouth - a slow, tender
caress.
“You looked
so enticing lying here playing alone, it seemed a shame not to give
you a company. Now . . . ,” his father murmured, almost lovingly,
“Now . . . let us do it again. And this time, it is I you shall
call out for, do you hear? I. Not Boromir. Call for me. Beg me to take
you, to ravish you, to make you mine completely. And this time I shall
watch your scared little face as you do tremble under me.”
Faramir still could
not move. He felt his legs being parted yet he could not move.
It was Denethor,
not Boromir.
Hands flew all over
him. Hands that had often come in contact with his body before, with
painful repercussions. A mouth hovered over him, the same mouth that
could cut him to pieces. The lips glistened; the tongue flicked over
them, pearly white teeth glistened.
*A dream,* his mind
screamed desperately, *This is a dream.*
But when Denethor,
pushing into him, slapped him and demanded he beg for him, he knew it
was no dream.
When the pain came
bereft of pleasure, he knew with certainty, it was no dream for all
the dreams he had ever had had been shattered.
He screamed, he
thought. But he could not remember what he screamed.
When dawn appeared
over the horizon, Denethor rose off him, saying no more than ordering
him to ready Boromir’s room for his arrival.
