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This story contains explicit depictions of a sexual relationship between consenting adults of the same gender and of different species. If you are under age or don’t care for this, LEAVE NOW. As usual, characters from The Lord of the Rings belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien and New Line Cinema (AOL); I only play with them from time to time without any compensation. No harm; no foul; no profit. Anyone or anything new, however, is mine (left-overs again). Beta by Nikki Memmott. Thanks, merci beaucoup, tapadh leibh, gracias, danke, grazie, arigato, spazebo, obrigado. You have been warned. Any errors are mine alone. Author’s notes follow.


an Arwen/Éowyn — Aragorn/Faramir story

Minas Tirith: TA 3020.

The White City was glorious, festooned with banners and flowers to celebrate the marriage of their beloved steward and the Princess of Rohan. The morning of the wedding dawned bright and clear, the very air redolent with the scent of roses and incense. At the third hour past dawn the bride, escorted by her brother, arrived at the Great Gates of the city. Éowyn rode a white horse, her gown covered with a dark green cloak. Flowers and ribbons had been braided into the mare’s mane and tail. Level after level the horses climbed, the streets lined with well-wishing onlookers. At the foot of the White Tree, they dismounted.

The great hall of the Tower of Ecthelion blazed with candles. The King of Gondor and his Elven Queen were resplendent in their formal robes. Elessar’s white tunic was bordered in gold, the winged crown of Gondor on his brow. Arwen’s gown was trimmed with silver embroidery, and a mithril circlet bound her midnight-hued hair. The hall was filled with folk of Gondor as well as Rohan, and here and there could be seen tall, fair-haired Elves and dark, sturdy Dwarves.

The great doors opened, and the crowd parted. The morning sun shone directly into the hall, lighting the path from door to dais. Two men, silhouetted against the golden light, strode forward and took their places at the foot of the dais. Lord Faramir, lately created Prince of Ithilien, wore the dark green of his demesne, his tunic bordered with black. He wore the coronet of his new office but had put aside the white rod of stewardship for this day only. He awaited his bride at the head of the hall, attended by his kinsman, Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth.

A hushed silence filled the hall, then two more figures entered.

Éowyn had discarded her cloak, revealing a white gown embellished with gold and green embroidery. Her honey-colored hair fell in waves down her back, and a fillet of gold set with green gems lay across her brow. Her hand rested lightly on the arm of her brother. Éomer had set aside his helm with its horsetail plume, and entered the great hall with his head bared but for the crown of Rohan. To the music of lutes and viols they strode the length of the hall to stand before the many-stepped dais that held the throne of Elessar.

As Éowyn had no kinswoman still living, Arwen quietly descended the steps to stand with her. The great doors closed and the music stopped when Elessar stood.

His gaze wandered over the upturned faces of the assembly, their jewels glittering in the light of candles and torches along the sides of the hall. At the back of the hall stood Faramir’s comrades from the Wars of the Ring, their formal uniforms decorated with bright buttons and braid. With them stood the men of the Riddermark, uncomfortable in the long robes that took the place of their more familiar riding leathers. Men and women of Minas Tirith’s most influential families mingled with the hard-working folk who had followed Faramir to new homes in Ithilien. In the forefront of the hall stood the elite of Gondor and her neighbors: nobles, councilors, and ambassadors, along with emissaries of lands as far-flung as Mirkwood and Erebor.

The king’s eye caught the bright blue gaze of the Prince of Mirkwood. A subtle nod acknowledged his old friend, and the Dwarf who stood beside the tall Elf as well. With measured steps Elessar descended the black stone steps of the dais. He stood silently for a moment, searching the depths of first Faramir’s, then Éowyn’s eyes. This, he decided, was one of the more pleasant parts of being king. He smiled, then looked out across the hall again.

“Friends, comrades-in-arms,” he began, his usually soft-toned voice carrying to all ears. “We are here today to solemnize the marriage of Faramir son of Denethor, Prince of Ithilien and steward of Gondor, and Éowyn Dernhelm, Princess of Rohan.”

The Rohirrim smiled as he named her Dernhelm. Disguised as a youth, she had ridden with the Host of Rohan to battle the Dark Lord, and was a hero of the fight.

Éowyn blushed to hear herself called such, but raised her eyes a heartbeat later to meet the king’s, and the ritual continued. Éomer and Imrahil each confirmed the consent of their respective families to the marriage, then the bride and groom repeated their vows before the assembly. Finally the king bound their hands together with a silken cord. A great cheer rose up from the crowd as Faramir touched his lips to Éowyn’s, and bells rang throughout the White City.

The celebration was not confined to the Great Hall of the Citadel. In every public house on every level of the city toasts were drunk to the newlyweds by the common folk, all dressed in their finest clothes, flowers and ribbons tied in women’s tresses and around men’s sleeves. The day had been declared a holiday, with no toil to be done save by those serving food and drink. Guardsmen, chosen by lot to stand their posts during the ceremony, were relived halfway through their watches to join the revelry.

The couple walked hand in hand along the spine of the city, strewing flowers down onto the people of Gondor. When they returned to the hall, a great feast had been set out with delicacies from the length and breadth of Middle earth — shellfish from the southern coasts, cheeses from the Shire, wines from the Laketown, Dwarf-brewed mead from the Lonely Mountain. The tables were loaded with roasted fowls and smoked meats, fresh-baked breads and sweet butter, glazed fruits and salted nuts. Wine and mead and ale flowed like water as the hosts celebrated with their guests, and the sun had passed the crest of the western mountains by the time the feasting and dancing quieted.

Only a handful of staunch retainers and servants remained once the sun went down. Elessar pushed his chair back from the table and clasped his hands behind his head. Éomer yet danced with Imrahil’s daughter; the Prince of Dol Amroth sat with Legolas and Gimli, flagons of ale in their hands. Faramir was surrounded by the closest of his company; Éowyn sat with Arwen and her ladies, whispering and giggling.

He had drunk a good deal of wine, Elessar knew, but with a hearty meal the drink would not go to his head. It had been a glorious day, and he felt sure Faramir and Éowyn were a good match. He watched as Faramir dismissed his comrades, then gestured to Arwen. She shooed away the ladies-in-waiting and brought Éowyn to his side. Taking their ale and wine cups with them, the last guests left the hall.

“My lord,” Faramir began. “There is yet another tradition, that has been long ignored. For the many years there has been no king in Gondor, there has been no one to do the duty of First Night.”

Elessar could hear a tremor in his voice, and thought it but groom’s nervousness. He knew of the ancient tradition, but had not expected it to be resurrected in this new Age. “You would have me lie with your bride tonight?”

“It is your right, my lord.” Éowyn’s voice was strong, her blue eyes gazed steadily into his.

“I have sworn to lie with no woman but my wife,” he replied. He had no desire to lie with Éowyn, and hoped that his vow would excuse him from such duty.

Éowyn lowered her head. Elessar sensed her pain at his rejection.

“Aragorn,” Faramir responded, titles forgotten. “The king’s attention is said to bless a union, insuring there will be strong, healthy children, and many years of happiness.”

Elessar looked at them all in turn, first Faramir, then Éowyn, and finally his queen. “Did you know of this?”

“I had heard of it, husband,” she replied. “It is a common tradition among the race of Men.” The queen moved to stand closer to Éowyn, soothing the young woman with an arm around her shoulders.

Arwen’s embrace sparked an idea in Elessar’s mind. “So be it,” he said quietly. “Éowyn, you shall spend this night in the King’s bed.” He was rewarded with a smile from the princess. “Arwen, you shall bide with her, and instruct her as to her duties as a wife.”

He raised a hand to silence their questions, then went on. “I will bless this union with my body, as I have already with my words.” He extended a hand to Faramir. “Come, Lord steward. While our wives abide in my chamber, we shall have the Queen’s.”

The King’s Bedchamber.

The private apartments of the King and Queen of Gondor were comprised of adjoining bedchambers with shared terrace, lounge, and bathing room. The personal servants of the king and queen, a young valet and twin maidens, were sent away with teasing words from Arwen, sending them to join their friends and find their own celebrations. Securing the entrance doors, Arwen turned back to her husband and guests.

Éowyn’s face was pale, her blue eyes wide. She held her hands together before her, knuckles white in her own grasp. She had not spoken as they made their way to the royal apartments. Arwen sensed her discomfort, the tension evident in her entire body.

“Lady Éowyn,” the queen crooned. “My dear, be not afraid, nor angry.” She waved her hands at the men, shooing them toward her bedchamber. “Begone you two,” she said. “Let us not see you again until the sun has fully risen.”

Without a word, Elessar and Faramir bowed to their wives, then the king ushered the bridegroom into the Queen’s chamber. Only Arwen’s elven ears caught the muffled sound of the door’s bolt thrown home. She led the silent princess to the king’s bed.

“My lady,” Éowyn stammered. “I’m afraid I don’t understand....” She stood at the foot of the large bed and watched as Arwen poured wine into two goblets.

The queen opened a pouch that hung from her belt and added a pinch of powdered herbs to each cup. Handing one to Éowyn, she said, “This will help you relax, my dear.” She stroked the girl’s pale cheek with the tips of her long fingers. “We shall bless your marriage in our own way,” she continued, touching the rim of her goblet to Éowyn’s.

Their eyes met for a brief second, then Éowyn drank the potion in one draught. Her gaze was still filled with trepidation, but as the herbs took effect, her features softened and she breathed more easily.

Arwen drank her wine just as quickly, and smiled at the response she saw and sensed in Éowyn. After setting aside the goblets, she combed her fingers through Éowyn’s long hair. One by one she plucked the fading flowers from the tumble of waves, then lifted the heavy mass in her hands. “Will you bind you hair now that you are wed?” she asked, pulling stray strands away from the woman’s neck and shoulders. “Or will you wear it loose and free?” Leaning forward, Arwen touched her full lips to the back of Éowyn’s neck, and lowered her hands to settle on the curve of her slender hips.

“I have not decided, my lady.”

The skin of Éowyn’s neck was soft, and Arwen caught the scent of flowers in her hair and the musk of arousal just behind her ear. She touched the tender spot with the tip of her tongue, and felt a shudder course from head to toe. Éowyn gasped and turned to face the queen. Their lips met unhesitatingly, the woman’s hands on either side of the Elf’s face. The kiss was brief but held a promise of more passion to be shared.

“Call me Arwen,” she whispered against the warm lips beneath hers, “or some other name of your choosing, for I would not be your queen tonight, but your guide to the ways of love.”

Éowyn drew back and lifted the dark hair from Arwen’s shoulders, letting the strands fall to her back. “I am a stranger to those ways,” she said, a blush rising in her fair skin, “I have had little time to spend with ladies, and in Rohan we go to our marriage beds yet maidens.”

They kissed again, tasting each other as their hands roved over each other, pulling at fasteners until the formal gowns fell to the floor, and together they stepped out of the heaped fabric and found their way to the bed. “Wait, my dear,” Arwen murmured. She reached for the silken shift that yet hid the woman’s slender body and gathered its length in her hands, raising the hem well above the knees.

Gracefully Éowyn lifted her arms, allowing the garment to be removed, then pulled Arwen’s shift likewise over the dark head. She pushed her brief drawers over her own hips and let them fall to the floor, revealing her body completely.

The young woman was as slender as a reed, but ripe, her maiden’s breasts high and firm, their tan tips already peaked with desire. Born and bred in Rohan, her thighs were more strongly muscled than Arwen had suspected. Long hidden from the sun, her body was fairer than her face and arms, the smooth skin unblemished and smooth but for a thatch of hair the shade of dark honey guarding her sex.

Arwen quickly slid her own drawers over her hips, lowering herself to her knees. She smelled the musk rising from the woman’s body, and felt her own nipples tighten. She was taller than Éowyn, her breasts a bit more full, the even shading of her skin unbroken. She traced her fingers along the sides of Éowyn’s body and leaned her cheek against the soft curve of Éowyn’s belly. Gently she kissed the warm skin beneath her lips, and again felt a shudder of arousal in the slender woman. Firmly she grasped Éowyn’s hips, and lifted her to sit on the bed’s edge.

The coverlet had been drawn back, and Éowyn slid her legs to the side and moved to the middle of the wide bed. She did not try to hide her body, but leaned back on the plump pillows. The dark-haired Elf sat at her hip, facing her. The light from the flickering candles cast a golden glow on the woman’s pale skin. Arwen took her hand, and raising it to her lips, kissed the palm, smiling as the woman’s fingers curled around her cheek.

The long, dark hair slid across the pale skin as Arwen leaned forward to press her lips to Éowyn’s again. The sensitive tips of their breasts touched, and as Arwen deepened the kiss she moved her body against the slender form beneath her, arousing them both all the more. She stroked softly along the side of the woman’s ribs, her fingertips feather-light and teasing.

Moaning softly, Éowyn moved under the Elf’s touch, her fingers combing into the dark hair. Each breath pushed her breasts upward, the light friction sending dizzying sensations through her whole being. Boldly, she pushed her tongue past Arwen’s, savoring the sweet taste and wet heat. The sudden touch of fingertips to the inside of her thigh made her gasp, and she opened her eyes to see Arwen smile at her.

The dark blue eyes were nearly black with arousal, the full lips swollen and soft. “There is much more than kisses for you to experience, my dear,” she whispered, tracing aimless spirals on the silken skin, each one closer to the treasure hidden by the crisp curls.

Éowyn did not respond with words, only with slight movements of her body. She pulled her shoulders back, raising her chest even further; her legs parted slightly, releasing the heat of her arousal.

Delicately Arwen extended her tongue to touch the tip of Éowyn’s right breast, flicking gently back and forth over the tightened nipple. She treated the other breast to the same pleasure, then closed her lips over the tan areola. Still teasing the very tip with her tongue, she pulled more and more of the soft flesh into her mouth, licking and suckling, first on one side, then the other. Her own breasts pressed against the woman’s belly, her taut nipples rubbing lightly on the sensitive skin.

She moved her hand from one leg to the other, tantalizing the neglected surface, each caress bringing her hand closer and closer to its goal. She licked and kissed a line down the center of Éowyn’s chest and belly, nuzzling the shallow navel and continuing to finally reach the secret places between the woman’s legs.

Arwen yearned to taste the woman’s juices, to feel her heat, but it was too soon. She drew Éowyn’s scent deep inside herself, then slid back to lie along side the gasping bride. “Do you see?” she asked, her own voice low and husky with desire. “How your body can bring you pleasure?” She gently pushed stray strands of hair away from the freckled face and ran the pad of her thumb across her lips. “Now,” she whispered in the curiously rounded ear, “touch me as I have touched you. See what pleasure you can give.”

Back and forth they pleasured each other, Éowyn learning from Arwen’s examples. They traded kiss for kiss, caress for caress. The woman discovered responses she’d never known, filled with passions she’d never imagined. She savored each touch and taste of the Elven Queen, and quickly learned how sensitive the points of her ears were, that her secret places tasted of honeyed wine.

Words became unnecessary, yea, they were impossible as they both gasped for breath, sighing and moaning as waves of passion and pleasure coursed through them.

Close to her own climax, Arwen slipped her fingers deep inside Éowyn’s hot, wet channel, and rubbed her thumb across the already swollen and throbbing clitoris. She felt the slender body begin to shake, the muscles tensing from head to toe. She swiped her tongue along the curved ear, and blew softly across the dampened skin.

The orgasm surged through the young woman, her body bucking against Arwen’s hand, her inner muscles clenching around the long fingers. As the spasms subsided, she lay her palm across Éowyn’s lower abdomen, and felt the strong contractions of the virgin womb.

Tears fell from the ice-blue eyes, kissed away by the Elven Queen’s soft lips, then she gathered the spent woman into her arms. “Sleep, my dear,” she murmured. “This lesson is complete.” She pressed her lips to the honey-colored hair and pulled the sheet and coverlet over them. “You will go to your husband’s bed a virgin bride,” she whispered, “but you will be in my heart forever.”

The Queen’s Bedchamber.

The Queen’s bedchamber was decorated in rich colors and textures, and the furnishings were luxurious without being opulent.

“Does it shock you that I prefer you to your bride?” Elessar turned from bolting the door to see that Faramir had continued far into the room. He had desired Faramir since their first meeting, but the steward’s injuries and later his duties were an ever-present hurdle to the king’s lust.

“Not shock, Aragorn,” Faramir answered. He had known the king first as Aragorn, and would ever think of him by that name, though he ruled as King Elessar. “Surprise, perhaps, that you would be so bold before your wife.”

“You do not know Arwen well, my friend.” He shed the stiff formal tunic, leaving him in a loose undershirt and snugly fitting leggings, then joined Faramir at the center of the room. The king quickly unfastened the steward’s buttons and stripped the outer garment from him. “We married for many reasons — to produce heirs, to fulfill a prophecy, to bind Men and Elf-kind. We care for each other, yes, but each of us has...” He paused, looking deeply into the green eyes of the Gondorian. “...other passions.”

A smile crept over Faramir’s face. “If I had but known,” he said, “I could have served you... better.”

The king mirrored his steward’s grin and continued to remove the younger man’s clothing. “Your service has not been lacking,” he said, loosening the laces which held the well-fitting breeches. A prominent bulge strained the fabric, and Elessar felt himself swell in response. He cupped his hand over Faramir’s erection, feeling the heat of his arousal.

Faramir gasped, and pressed himself against the king’s touch. He raised his arms and pulled his shirt over his head, knocking his circlet askew. He dropped the metal band to the floor along with the shirt, then pulled Elessar’s shirt from his body.

Elessar had removed the formal winged crown after soon the ceremony and wore only a plain circlet much like Faramir’s. He swept it from his brow, then pulled Faramir into his arms, into a crushing kiss. His tongue pushed past the steward’s lips, exploring the warm, moist cavern while he tightened his embrace. One hand rose to tangle in the sandy hair; the other slid downward to caress and squeeze the firm, rounded backside.

An endless time later — or was it only a moment — they pulled apart and gasped for breath. The king bent his head to nuzzle the corner of throat and shoulder, tasting and nipping when Faramir stretched his head back. Elessar followed the taut tendon back up to nip at a fleshy earlobe. “Bed,” he whispered hoarsely, the word both an order and a request.

“Gladly, my liege,” Faramir responded teasingly. They moved as one the few steps to the bed, and the steward sank to his knees, sitting back on his heels. He gestured for Elessar to sit, then quickly removed his boots. Rising up, still on his knees, he reached to the waistband of the king’s remaining garment. Elessar stood to allow the white leggings to be pulled over his hips and down his legs.

Though Elessar — Aragorn — was eighty-nine years old, his Númenorean blood made him the match of a man a third his age. He was lean but well-muscled, the skin fair where it was hidden from the sun and wind. A white scar crossed his upper left arm, the freshest of many that marked his body. Brown hair dusted his chest and surrounded the base of his manhood.

He extended his hands to Faramir, pulling him to stand again. He stepped back to the bed and sat, then leaned back against the pillowed headboard. He looked at the steward from head to toe and back again, and gestured for him to finish removing his clothing.

A blush rose across Faramir’s chest and face, but he quickly pulled off his boots and pushed his leggings to the floor. He stepped out of the puddled fabric and waited. Aragorn’s eyes were on his body, and his manhood, stiff and weeping, twitched. He drew a deep breath and stood straight under the king’s gaze.

Aragorn’s eyes drank in the trim form — the bow-strengthened shoulders, the long, corded muscles in the lean thighs, the obvious arousal — and he felt a wave of desire surge through him. He had restrained himself these many months, and he craved satisfaction. He’d lain with Arwen from time to time, hoping to get an heir on her soon, but had spent most nights alone in his chamber with only memories and his own hand to bring release.

Turning onto his hip, Aragorn moved to the center of the bed. “Join me.”

Faramir did not hesitate. He slid onto the bed, moving immediately into the circle of Aragorn’s arms. Their lips met again, more gently this time, and their bodies pressed together unimpeded. No craftsman in all of Middle-earth — not Elf, nor Dwarf, nor Man — could have fit two parts together so perfectly. They moved against each other, Aragorn’s leg over Faramir’s hip; Faramir’s thigh against Aragorn’s groin. Hands combed through hair, kneaded muscles, pinched nipples, while lips kissed and nipped and tongues probed and moistened.

The steward slid down the King’s body, his lips leaving trails of kisses behind his caressing fingertips, until he reached the older man’s aching need. With the tip of his tongue he tentatively traced the throbbing vein from base to the edge of the velvety crown. He lapped away the pearly fluid, then took the organ deeply into his mouth.

Aragorn moaned aloud, and raised his hips into the welcoming heat of Faramir’s mouth. Fisting his hands in the bedsheets, he fought the intense desire to release, to let the waves of passion overtake him. He panted heavily, forced his fingers to relax, then softly petted the strands of tumbled hair. Strong hands gripped his hips, holding his lower body still. He gasped when his manhood was suddenly released, and shuddered under the hot, heavy breaths. He pried Faramir’s hands from their grip and pulled the steward back to lie alongside him, capturing the talented mouth to taste his own essence.

“You have lain with a man before,” Aragorn asked, barely pulling his lips away.

“’Course... ’m a soldier,” Faramir responded. His voice was slurred with passion as though he were drunk, and he pressed his lips to Aragorn’s jaw and neck.

A smile crossed Aragorn’s face. He had not inquired, but he had hoped the tradition of bonded warriors had endured since his last visit to Gondor in the days of Faramir’s grandfather. He pressed a kiss to the smooth-skinned forehead and reached to the bedside table for a jar of sweet-smelling cream, used by Arwen to soften her skin. “This will do to prepare us,” he muttered.

The two men shifted positions, kicking aside the coverlet, propping the pillows for support. Aragorn urged Faramir’s thighs apart and knelt between them. For a long moment he gazed at the willing man beneath him, chest heaving with each breath, the straining organ slick from leaking fluid. The king lowered his head to kiss his steward’s lips once more, then his throat, his chest, navel, then finally the velvety head of his swollen member. While his tongue laved at the throbbing shaft, the king gently stroked the soft cream over and around the puckered entrance.

This was his fantasy come true. So many lonely nights, in the quiet hours before dawn, Aragorn had thought of the steward’s young body. As exciting as his imaginings had been, the reality was even more arousing. Never had he dared to dream that his desire was returned. He had only seen Faramir’s devotion as soldier to commander, as steward to king. He had never seen the passion in the green eyes, had never let his feelings be exposed. Now, though, all barriers had vanished, all inhibitions had gone.

Taking Faramir’s organ deep into his mouth, Aragorn probed the tight opening. His questing digit slid into the heated channel, each movement bringing sighs and moans from the younger man’s mouth. When he slid a second finger beside the first, Faramir pulled his legs to his chest and looped his arms behind his knees.

“Ah,” the king sighed, lifting his head. “You want this, don’t you?”

“By all the stars,” Faramir swore, “yes.... Yes, I want you!”

Faramir gasped as Aragorn’s manhood breached his opening, cutting short his shout of desire. They moved together, their eyes locked on each other as the king drove his steel-hard need deep into the welcoming body of the steward. Nothing else existed, no one else mattered — not Gondor, not Arwen, not Éowyn — as the two men took one another to the heights of ecstasy. Faramir’s release came first, covering them both with his hot seed, followed a heartbeat later when Aragorn emptied himself. Spent, both men collapsed, their limbs entwined, their faces so close they breathed each other’s breaths.

Anor silently rose above the eastern mountains, filling the White City with the light of dawn. Though the revelry had lasted long into the night, the common folk rose with the sun to go about their duties. Likewise the King and Queen of Gondor and the Prince and Princess of Ithilien rose and parted from their lovers to live their lives of duty.

The End


Once crowned king, Aragorn took the name Elessar. I’m sure, though, that his closest friends would call him by the name by which they knew him best --— Arwen calls him Estel; Faramir calls him Aragorn. If the hobbits were here, I'm sure they would still call him Strider. The most JRRT gives us about Faramir and Éowyn is that they are trothplighted at the banquet following the funeral of Théoden.

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