Never before had Éomer of Rohan seen such a sight as the towering city of Minas Tirith. In all his eighteen years he had never before ventured beyond the borders of the Riddermark, but now, in the company of his cousin Théodred and a dozen broodmares, he had ridden to the fabled White City of Gondor.
Level after level the city rose up the side of the mountain, a spine of raw rock jutting outward, splitting the circles of the city in twain. They were barely inside the city gates when the horses were taken to the stables, and they were told the Steward, Lord Denethor himself, desired to greet them. They brushed the dust of the road from their clothes and started the long climb up to the citadel and its tower.
They found Denethor surrounded by councilors and advisors. The greying Steward of the city greeted Théodred perfunctorily, and Éomer bristled to see his cousin, heir to the throne of Rohan, treated in such a cavalier fashion.
“And who is this at your side? Denethor asked, his attention turned to Éomer.
“May I present my cousin, Éomer, son of Éomund,” Théodred said formally. “He is as a second son to my father.”
The two men from Rohan were not sure if Denethor laughed or coughed as he turned to his nearest advisor. “Let’s hope Théoden King is more fortunate in his second son than I am.” The councilors laughed along with the Steward, but neither Éomer nor Théodred could discern the humor in Denethor’s comment.
“Speaking of my sons,” Denethor went on, “here they are. Men of Rohan, meet the Lords of Gondor.”
Two men, obviously brothers from their resemblance to one another, had entered the hall and were unceremoniously making their way toward the Steward. His announcement did not seem to affect the older brother, but the younger one cringed at the appellation.
“Théodred!” the older of Denethor’s sons called out.
“Boromir!” Théodred answered as they greeted each other first as warriors, clasping forearms, then as friends, briefly embracing.
“You remember Faramir,” Boromir said, drawing his younger brother forward.
“Of course.” Théodred and Faramir clasped arms, but did not embrace. “This is my cousin, Éomer,” Théodred explained, “whom I’ve told you about.”
“It is good to finally meet you, Éomer,” Boromir said. His voice was as strong as his grasp as he greeted the younger man enthusiastically. “This is Faramir, my brother,” he added, directing Éomer to the other Gondorian.
Faramir was obviously several years younger than Boromir, no more than twenty-five or six, Éomer estimated. He did not have Boromir’s size, but they did resemble one another, mostly in their eyes. Faramir’s hair had more red in it than Boromir’s, and his face was clean shaven as his father’s. Both Boromir and Faramir wore the uniform of the Gondorian Rangers, the stylized white tree tooled into the brown leather cuirasses they wore under their dull green cloaks. Brown leggings and supple boots completed their uniforms, and Boromir wore a large, brass-bound horn on a baldric over his shoulder. Their scabbards were empty, for they had left their weapons at the door of the hall, as had Théodred and Éomer. Their dress was much less dramatic than the black and silver livery the guards of the Citadel wore, and Éomer could see the drab colors would blend in with the landscape much better than the brighter guardsmen’s clothes.
Éomer felt very out of place in his riding clothes, though his bright green cloak with its gold trim was the finest clothing he owned. He and Théodred had been on the road for a seven-day, the herd of broodmares slowing their pace between Edoras and Minas Tirith.
“Have you more business with Father?” Boromir asked of Théodred.
“Not until I’ve seen the horses they’ve delivered,” the Steward interrupted. He looked to the windows, high on the walls of the hall, the afternoon sun casting long shadows. “It is late in the day,” he mused. He turned away, dismissing them with a wave of his hand. “You have the freedom of the city tonight; we shall see the horses tomorrow.”
Boromir inquired of the major domo about accommodations for the visitors, then he and Faramir escorted Théoden and Éomer to the guest house that had been assigned to their use. It was little more than a cottage, a sitting room flanked by sleeping chambers, with windows looking into a small courtyard rather than out over the city.
“We probably smell of our horses still,” Théodred complained to Boromir. “I recall there are public baths?”
Boromir took an exaggerated sniff of Théodred’s cloak and feigned disgust. “We’ll have you two smelling like civilized men in no time,” he declared. He threw an arm across Théodred’s shoulders and they strode off, leaving the younger men to follow.
“I used to follow him around when I was a child,” Éomer confided to Faramir. “It seems to have become a habit.”
A smile crossed Faramir’s face, the first Éomer had seen. “I understand,” he responded. “I have dogged Boromir’s footsteps since I could walk.”
As they descended through level after level, Faramir pointed out various sights to the young Éomer. Four levels down, still following their older relations, they came upon a large building, constructed of the same white stone as the rest of the city; broad steps led up to an ornate entrance, guarded by a pair of large, uniformed guards. They did not wear the livery of the city, Éomer noticed, but the same symbols as decorated the heavy wooden doors behind them. They snapped to attention at the approach of Boromir and the others, and opened the doors, allowing the four men to enter.
The foyer of the building was spacious, but largely empty of people. They were greeted by an elderly concierge wearing the same livery as the guards, and after a whispered request from Boromir, he clapped his hands four times and called out loudly, “Boys!”
Four boys appeared at a trot, all dressed alike. They were just a few years younger than Éomer, but still on childhood’s side of youth. The boys led them into a smaller room, its walls lined with a series of open alcoves. As they passed by, Éomer noticed each alcove was furnished with hooks from which hung various cloaks and other garments. To one side a group of even younger boys worked industriously cleaning boots and shoes. They were each shown to an empty alcove.
Small hands nimbly unfastened Éomer’s riding cloak, and before he could protest, it was shaken out and hung neatly on a hook. “Have a seat, sir,” the boy said, his voice yet unchanged, “and I’ll take your boots to be cleaned.”
There was nothing like this in Edoras. There were baths, to be sure; the Rohirrim were not as uncivilized as Gondorians seemed to think. But in Rohan men disrobed in private, and certainly not with the assistance of youthful valets. This was the way of the White City, he mused, and let the boy remove the rest of his clothing. He wrapped a large towel about his loins and draped the end over his shoulder before joining the others.
Éomer was thankful that he had quizzed Théodred about Minas Tirith and Gondor for as long as he could remember, as he found himself clad identically to his cousin and their two hosts. Again, Boromir led the way down a course of stone steps to the largest pool Éomer had ever seen. It was as large as a small lake, but completely artificial and enclosed. The ceiling was three times the height of a man, painted the color of the sky. Sunlight streamed in through tall windows, and was augmented by sconces with dozens of candles. There were potted plants, even small trees, along the walls, giving a feeling of being outdoors.
Boromir dropped his towel and dove into the pool, his body cutting the water like a knife. He surfaced near the center and shook the water from his hair. Without a word Faramir followed suit. “We’d best put aside our modesties, cousin,” Théodred cautioned. “We’re in the grand city of Men now, we must act as they do.” He slapped Éomer on the shoulder, dropped his own towel and entered the pool, leaving the youngest of the group standing alone.
It was not as though Éomer had never been naked in the company of other men; he had grown up in a martial court, and had spent his youth as a squire, and would soon take his place in an éored of Riders. A single deep breath settled his wits, and quickly he followed his cousin.
The water was warm, comfortably so to one accustomed to swimming in ponds filled with the runoff from snow fields. Once safely in the pool, Éomer took the time to study the other men who shared the baths with them.
There were several groups, some in the water, some reclining on the wooden chaises that were scattered about. Some of the patrons were warriors, he could tell by their muscular stature, others were obviously not, perhaps shopkeepers or clerks by the look of them. He caught sight of one pair in the midst of a massage, and off in a quiet corner, a couple shared a seat, sitting so close as to leave no doubt of their feelings for one another. Éomer blushed as the couple kissed, quickly turning his head so as not to stare.
“Don’t let them bother you,” Faramir said amiably. “They are new to each other, and forget they are in public. But you are young still,” he continued. “Are you not familiar with the ways between men?”
“I know of them,” the young Rohirrim answered. He blushed and turned away, embarrassed to admit his virginity. “In Rohan the baths are not as... open....”
Faramir nodded. “I’ve heard you have ways different from ours. You’ll have to tell me of them.”
Faramir’s hand on his shoulder sent a pleasant shudder through Éomer’s body. “Come,” the Gondorian went on. “Let’s not dawdle; I think Boromir has a special evening in mind for us.”
Taverns were the same everywhere, Éomer decided. The dimly lit room, crowded with off-duty soldiers and working men, smelled of leather and sweat, overlaid with aromas of ale and meat roasting with onions. Boromir elbowed his way to the bar while Faramir led Théodred and Éomer to a table in a far corner of the room. From their seats they could see the whole of the tavern. Boromir and Théodred took chairs in the corner, their backs to the wall, leaving the exposed side of the round table for their younger companions.
They had dined at the Steward’s residence, though Denethor barely noticed their presence. He sat at the head of the long table, absorbed in his own meal, served to him on a silver platter. The younger men ate at the opposite end of the table from Denethor conversing among themselves. The dishes were more elaborately prepared than Éomer was accustomed to, and there were subtle flavors that were new to him, but the meal was hearty and satisfying. He only sipped at the dark red wine that was poured for him, unaccustomed as he was to such fine drink.
Ale was more to his liking, and the tavern had that aplenty. Their first round consisted of four full-pint flagons of ale, as did the second and third rounds. After three rounds of brimming pints, Faramir excused himself, looking quite refreshed upon his return. A fourth flagon of ale awaited him, but he pushed it to the center of the table and leaned back in his chair.
“I know you will call me a babe for it, Brother, but I must pass this round.”
Éomer grinned, glad not to be the first to stop drinking, and pushed his flagon to the table’s center as well. He could feel the ale buzzing in his head, and a building pressure in his bladder. He put his hand on Faramir’s arm to get the man’s attention.
“Will you show me where’s the loo?” His tongue seemed to be taking up too much room in his mouth, and his words ran together.
When he and Faramir stood up, the room seemed to spin for a moment, but by the time they reached the fresh, cool night air outside, the ground had decided to stay in its proper place beneath his feet. Taking him by the elbow, Faramir directed him to a walled area behind the tavern.
“There you are,” he said. “Aim at that bale of straw, and keep your boots out of the muck.”
Éomer managed to follow Faramir’s instructions, and felt his head clear in the fresh air.
“Feel better now?” the older man inquired as they walked back through the tavern yard.
Knowing better than to nod his head, Éomer answered aloud. “Yes, thank you. You must think me a fool.”
“No, not a fool,” Faramir assured him. “Just young.” He looped a friendly arm over Éomer’s shoulder, and steered him away from the tavern door. “I think Boromir and Théodred would rather we go our separate ways for the rest of the night.”
“Oh?” Éomer asked. ‘”Oh,” he added. He hadn’t missed the looks between the two older men, nor the easy way they touched each other. “They’ve known each other for several years.” Suddenly Éomer realized how far from home he was, and how strange and unfamiliar the White City was to him.
“And they know each other very well.” He stopped and looked at Éomer. “Stay with me tonight,” he suggested, “and neither of us will be alone.”
Éomer felt the light touch of Faramir’s hand on his cheek, and turned his head to meet the blue eyes. He watched as a breeze ruffled the cinnamon-colored hair, noticing for the first time how the end of each lock waved and curled. He studied the Gondorian’s face, and wondered what it would be like to feel those lips on his. He would taste like ale, probably, but perhaps also like honeyed wine, or the sweetest summer fruit.
“Yes,” he answered. “I’d like that.”
Éomer’s head had cleared substantially by the time they reached Faramir’s private chambers in the Steward’s residence. Not for a moment did he regret his decision to accompany Faramir; the young Gondorian was handsome and personable, and seemed to be genuinely interested in him.
Faramir’s room was at the end of a long corridor on an upper floor of the residence. The halls were deserted as they made their way from the courtyard level up two sets of stairs, the first broad and ornate, the second narrow and steep. Before climbing the second flight, Faramir collected a pair of tapers, lighting them from the wall sconces. “The upper corridors aren’t kept lit as the lower floors are,” he explained, handing the flickering candle in its holder to Éomer.
The room was sparsely furnished, a large bed opposite the hearth, a desk and wardrobe against the wall across from a pair of windows draped to keep out the night air. Books and scrolls were stacked neatly on the desk, the stone floor was covered by a richly woven but worn carpet, and the bed was covered with a plain quilt.
The remains of a fire smoldered in the hearth, and Faramir added kindling and logs. “The guest house is probably more comfortable,” he admitted, pumping a bellows to encourage the fire. “But here we won’t be disturbed.”
Éomer watched Faramir as the older man moved about the room. He had a grace about him that Éomer presumed had been learned from his life as a Ranger, spending most of his time living in the wilds protecting Gondor’s borders from enemies. It wasn’t that he moved as a maiden would; there was nothing feminine about Faramir.
He let Faramir take his cloak, waiting while he hung it with his own in the wardrobe. He smiled when Faramir turned back to face him, and welcomed the Gondorian’s embrace. Faramir’s lips were as warm and soft as he’d imagined, and he opened gladly when he felt the touch of a hot, questing tongue. Their embrace tightened, and a pleasing warmth grew in his groin, spreading quickly as their kiss continued.
When Faramir pulled back, Éomer drew a gasping breath. He was eager to continue, but unsure of how to proceed. Tentatively, he put a hand to Faramir’s brow, fingering the soft strands of hair, stroking the stubbled cheek. Even in the candlelight he could see the blue eyes darken. He saw gentleness in Faramir’s eyes, and ventured to whisper, “You spoke of the ways between men.”
A smile spread across Faramir’s face as he nodded slowly. “Let me show you.”
Faramir kissed him again, a soft, gentle kiss that ended much more quickly than Éomer would have preferred. He groaned as Faramir drew away, but was silenced by a finger laid across his lips. “Fear not, young one, there are many more pleasures to enjoy.”
Deftly Faramir unfastened Éomer’s tunic and the shirt beneath it, opening them both to rub the flats of his palms against Éomer’s smooth chest. He pushed the garments over the broad shoulders and let them fall to the floor, then stood back a few inches and placed Éomer’s hands on his own buttons.
In moments Faramir’s upper garments were piled on the floor and Éomer ran his hands through the curling hair that covered Faramir’s chest. The older man sighed as the questing fingers brushed over his nipples. “You learn quickly,” he said, then moved his hands to the belt that secured Éomer’s trousers.
Éomer did not wait to be told what to do next; while Faramir loosened his belt, he pulled at the laces of the Gondorian’s breeches. Neither man could step out of the puddled clothes though, as they both wore boots that defied easy removal.
“Sit,” Faramir commanded, doing the same and pulling his boots from his feet. Éomer followed his lead and soon found himself borne back onto the bed, Faramir’s naked body pressed to his own.
Faramir’s hands and mouth were everywhere, and Éomer tried to return the kisses and caresses in kind, wanting to bring equal pleasures to Faramir. When Faramir’s hand closed on his manhood, Éomer moaned aloud, unable to contain himself. The Gondorian’s hand felt little different from his own, and with but a second’s hesitation, he took Faramir’s shaft in his own fist, fondling it as he had pleasured himself from time to time.
“You need little instruction,” Faramir sighed, then traced a line of hot, wet kisses along Éomer’s neck and chest. His tongue teased at the flat nipples as his hand found the heavy orbs and sensitive skin between the strong thighs.
Éomer had never imagined the pleasures that coursed through his body. His blood was on fire, every touch igniting passions never before roused, and when Faramir engulfed his throbbing shaft, he cried out, the ecstasy almost too much to bear. Tangling his fingers in Faramir’s hair, he thrust deeper into the hot, moist cavern of the Gondorian’s mouth. But as his climax neared, the tensions building in his groin, Faramir released him and once more pressed their bodies together. Crossing like swords in battle their erections slid against each other as Faramir ground and thrust his hips against Éomer’s as his mouth once again claimed a deep, searching kiss.
It was more than the young Rohirrim could bear, his seed spilling in heated spurts, joined in his release as Faramir poured his essence to mingle between their bodies.
The sweet and salty taste of Faramir’s neck was a pleasing combination. Lazily Éomer lapped at the damp skin, making his way from the angle of the shoulder to the hollow under the ear. “So there are just the two of you,” he asked, “you and Boromir?” He nuzzled the outer curve of Faramir’s ear and nipped softly at the fleshy lobe.
“Yes,” Faramir replied, a catch in his breath as Éomer’s hot breath tickled him. It was hours before dawn, but the silvery light of the moon and stars crept into the room and reflected in his eyes. “Mother died when I was too young to remember.”
“No sisters,” Éomer said sleepily, dragging his fingertips across the other man’s chest.
“I think Father would have preferred that I had been born a girl,” Faramir mused aloud. “He would have married me off to your cousin five years ago.”
“I have a sister.” He nestled his head on Faramir’s shoulder, their bodies fitting together for their full length.
“Is she as beautiful as you are handsome?” Faramir toyed with the hair that hung over Éomer’s back, twisting the long strands in his fingers.
“She is but a girl still, barely old enough to stir a man’s desires.”
“Ah, but her brother can surely stir mine.” With that Faramir flipped Éomer onto his back and leaned over the younger man, grasping his wrists in his hands, pinning him to the mattress. “And, it seems,” he said, “I can stir his!” He captured Éomer’s mouth in a demanding kiss, his tongue pushing past lips and teeth both to plunder the hot, wet cavern. He slid his leg over Éomer’s hip, and pressed his growing need against the lean loins. He snaked his hand between them, his fingers urging Éomer’s once-spent member back to readiness.
The younger man bucked under Faramir’s touch. He cupped either side of Faramir’s face in his hands, his tongue taking its turn exploring the Gondorian’s mouth. “I would taste all of you,” he muttered against the still swollen lips before turning them both to the side.
Though his fingers ghosted over the sensitive nubs of Faramir’s nipples, Éomer took his kisses to the base of the stiffening shaft. He bathed the length of the organ with his tongue, reaching the rosy crown as the first drop of pearly fluid emerged. He kissed the drop away, then took the throbbing organ into his mouth, sucking strongly until he’d taken as much as he could without choking. He used his tongue to massage and tease as he drew back, catching the rim of the crown with his lips. Again and again he took Faramir and released him, then swallowed greedily when the seed poured into his throat.
They slept the rest of the night in each other’s arms, not to awaken until the morning sun snuck its light around the edges of the heavy draperies.
Denethor approved of the broodmares, though both Théodred and Éomer could tell the Steward knew next to nothing of horses other than how to keep his seat on a steed. Their contract fulfilled, and their saddlebags reprovisioned, they rode out of the city at Denethor’s insistent farewell.
“So — did you bed the colt?” Boromir sat with his elbows on either side of his plate, a hunk of bread in one hand and a goblet of spiced wine in the other. The main hall was deserted while Denethor saw to the Rohirrim’s departure, but for the sons of the Steward sharing their midday meal.
“Don’t talk about him like that.” Faramir tore a roll in two and dipped it in the puddle of gravy on his plate. “Yes,” he said quietly before biting into the sopping bread.
Boromir raised an eyebrow at his younger brother. “What’s this? You have feelings for him? You care about this Éomer?”
“I like him,” Faramir said simply. “He’s a good man.”
“He’s hardly more than a boy.” Boromir drained his goblet and refilled it.
“He’ll be a good man,” Faramir insisted. He tossed the remnants of his roll onto his plate and shoved his chair back. He walked the length of the table and took the wine carafe from his brother.
“He’s not even the second son,” Boromir reminded him. “He’s Théoden’s sister-son — barely noble enough to be called Lord.”
“He’ll be at the right hand of the throne when Théodred becomes king.” Returning to his seat, he filled his goblet and set the carafe next to his plate.
“As you will be at mine.”
“You will be Steward, brother, not King.” He raised his goblet to his brother, then drained it in one draught.
Boromir acknowledged his brother’s toast, and tossed back his wine before he rose from the table. “Gondor has no king.”
“Gondor needs no king,” Faramir answered.