CHAPTER ONE
“Ready for your first Skewering?” leered Captain Echthorn.
Faramir looked around at Damrod and Anborn, his fellow newcomers.
They were eyeing each other doubtfully. Both understood by now that
the Captain’s questions were addressed to the Steward’s
son, not to them.
“I don’t know what a Skewering is,” said Faramir,
facing the Captain. “If it’s roasted meat, we will greet
it as cheerfully as any ranger among you.”
The Captain laughed. “It’s meat, all right! As for the
roasting, you’ll find out soon enough. Welcome to Henneth Annûn,
my lord!”
And he beckoned them into the cave.
Faramir’s belly churned as he crossed the threshold. Here at
last! For months he had begged his father to send him to Ithilien. For
months he had read up on its geography, its history, its ill-kept secrets.
But Denethor knew what lay behind his son’s odd obsession, and
he had put his foot down time and again.
“Boromir went there!” Faramir had argued. “Why shouldn’t
I?”
“Your brother was already a proven soldier,” Denethor
told him impatiently. “Your mettle remains untested.”
“Then let me test it! Ithilien is one of the most dangerous
of our outposts. What better test could there be?”
“Any!” cried Denethor. “Do not try to deceive me,
Faramir. You hope to find death in Ithilien, but no son of mine will
throw his life away over so slight a thing as a broken heart. Leave
me, and do not speak of this again.”
At last, however, Denethor had relented. It had been Boromir’s
doing. He seemed only too anxious to put some distance between himself
and his younger brother. He pleaded with their father, and in the end
he prevailed. That was now a whole month ago. The departure had been
delayed because no other recruits could be found. Faramir would have
made the journey alone, but again his father balked. Only when Damrod
and Anborn surfaced, just last week, did Denethor unwillingly send messengers
and order an armed escort. Faramir looked on Minas Tirith for what he
hoped might be the last time.
The escort had taken them as far as the appointed rendezvous, unloaded
their meager gear and turned them over to Captain Ecthorn. Then, with
obvious relief, it had ridden back the way it came.
“Count yourselves lucky, you two,” Ecthorn had barked
at Damrod and Anborn, by way of greeting. “First-timers don’t
usually get the Captain himself for a guide. You can thank Lord Faramir
for that.”
It was the last thing he had said to them. Until they reached Henneth
Annûn he spoke only to Faramir, and his conversation took the form of
a rambling monologue. Most of his so-called rangers, he said, were no
better than these two boys – raw, inexperienced, barely man enough
to lift a sword, let alone wield it. Faramir would see. As often as
not, they got themselves killed in their first battle – and good
riddance! Those who survived were kept humble by a few real soldiers,
Ecthorn’s hand-picked guard. Floggings were not uncommon. If he
wanted to, Faramir could administer these himself.
Faramir said nothing. He had suspected that life here would be rough,
but not as brutal as this. Perhaps the Captain’s bark was worse
than his bite. In any case, it was not Faramir’s wish to interfere.
His role was unclear – soldier or officer-in-training, no one
had quite said – but the purpose he had set himself was not. When
it had been achieved, he would accept the first suicide mission that
came his way.
He barely noticed the beauty of Ithilien, with its green glades and
many waterfalls. Summer was young yet, and the noisy streams all but
overflowed their banks. Birdsong filled the air and butterflies could
be seen among the leaves, almost as if these hills were not now the
haunt of the Dark Lord’s servants. New growth taunted the sad,
stale hopelessness of Faramir’s heart.
Still, almost automatically, he noted the path they took. Sometimes
he saw landmarks he’d read about in his studies. And when, in
the late afternoon, they descended a rough stair hewn from living rock,
he knew they’d reached their goal.
They passed behind the waterfall that gave the cave its name: Henneth
Annûn. Inside, torches were few. Faramir peered, squinting as his eyes
adjusted to the gloom. Dozens of wary faces peered back at him, their
features grim and unknowable. Not for the first time, he wondered how
these men would welcome their steward’s younger son. Would they
see him as a boy putting on man’s attire before he’d earned
it? Would they bow before him only to sneer behind his back?
“Fellow rangers!”
Ecthorn was speaking to the assemblage. All set aside what they were
doing and attended their Captain’s words. A line of armed men
took their positions behind him. This must be the hand-picked guard,
Faramir thought.
“It’s been a few years since we last entertained a son
of the Steward. Those of you who lived to tell the tale will remember
what a fine first impression we made on young Boromir. He came here
fresh from the city, but when he left he was a Ranger of Ithilien. And
this was where his education began. Wait, though.” The Captain’s
eyes fastened on Faramir’s hands. “Our guest is still holding
onto his gear. That’s not how we treat the Steward’s son,
is it? Somebody’d better grab that gear and stow it quick.”
Somebody did. An anonymous figure sprang out of the crowd, took the
offending items and made off with them. Anborn and Damrod still held
their gear, but no one offered to help them with it.
“Now,” continued Ecthorn. “With the assistance of
these two new recruits – sorry if I don’t remember your
names, lads, but then again, why should I? – we can prove to Lord
Faramir that we know how to treat a man. And how do you think we’ll
do that?”
No one answered. Ecthorn surveyed his audience.
“I can’t hear you,” he said meaningfully. “What’s
the good time we’ve got in store for Lord Faramir?” The
silence continued. He turned to his guards.
“You boys know the answer, don’t you?” Ecthorn shouted
at them. “Tell Lord Faramir what he’s got to look forward
to!”
“A Skewering!” one of them called out. The other guards
laughed.
“Well done!” replied Ecthorn. “Yes, it’s time
for a Skewering. You two! New boys! Step over here.”
Anborn and Damrod obeyed. They were smiling sheepishly, as if to reassure
themselves that this charade was all in fun. Faramir had been too preoccupied
to notice them during their two day ride. Now, for the first time, he
saw how young they were. Damrod looked about seventeen – two years
younger than Faramir himself. Anborn couldn’t have been more than
fifteen, far too young for this sort of assignment. Or was it the looming
presence of Ecthorn that made him look so small and vulnerable? Faramir
shuddered. Did all recruits receive a welcome like this?
“Now, Lord Faramir has been gently reared,” Ecthorn went
on with a smirk. “So he may not know the reason why certain young
fellows end up here. But you two know, don’t you, boys? You know
what got you shipped out to this orc-infested backwater. So let’s
have it. You!” He pointed to Anborn, who had taken on a hunted
look. “Tell Lord Faramir how it happened.”
Anborn quailed. “I – I don’t know, sir,” he
managed to reply.
“Don’t know? What a pity that no one bothered to inform
you. Fortunately, they did inform me. I’ll explain the situation.
Lord Faramir, the sad fact is that this lad was found in a clinch with
another lad.”
Faramir’s stomach gave a sickening lurch. He couldn’t believe
his ears.
Anborn hung his head in shame. “What’s more,” Ecthorn
went on relentlessly, “I’m told he was playing the woman.
Now, this may come as a shock to you, Lord Faramir, but your father
knows what to do about incidents like this. He always has. He sends
the little buggers here, where I can look after them. And I do, Lord
Faramir. I look after them very well indeed.” The Captain turned
to Anborn. “Boy!” he barked. “You know how to obey
orders, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” said the wretched Anborn.
“Of course you do. Well, here’s one for you. Strip!”
Anborn froze. Faramir, too, felt his limbs gripped by a sudden paralysis.
It was as if he himself stood where Anborn was standing, helpless and
humiliated, his secret exposed for all to see.
Seconds passed.
“Did you hear me?” barked the Captain. Anborn bobbed his
head silently. “Then do as I say! Or shall I send my guards to
help you?”
Anborn shot a quick, terrified look at the guards. Then he put down
his gear and started fumbling at the collar of his tunic. Faramir watched,
unbelieving, while the leather ties parted and the garment slid back,
revealing pale shoulders and arms covered in gooseflesh. A chill traveled
up Faramir’s spine. To his horror, he felt himself getting hard.
“That’s better,” said the Captain. “Now the
boots. Get on with it!”
Anborn took off the old, scuffed boots he had probably inherited from
an older brother. When they had joined his tunic on the rocky floor,
he stood for a moment with head bowed and arms folded protectively across
his bare chest. But the Captain hadn’t finished yet.
“What are you waiting for? Leggings, too!”
There was to be no mercy, Faramir saw. Within him he felt the familiar
sensation of numbness, that same numbness his brother had left behind
when he used Faramir’s body for his own pleasure. He knew that
someone should help this poor boy who in no way deserved what was happening
to him. But scruples fell away, lost in the numbness, while Anborn slowly,
inexorably slid his fingers under his waistband and pulled the leggings
down past his hips, his thighs, his knees, his ankles. Finally he stepped
out of them, balancing first on one leg, then on the other. He hopped
a little when he almost toppled over, and his bare buttocks quivered.
Naked, he looked more like a child than a man. Faramir’s crotch
was tight as a drum. He hated himself for it. The guards laughed.
Ecthorn laughed too. And now Faramir saw, to his shock, that the Captain
was rubbing his own crotch, slowly and deliberately. He was sliding
his fingers under his waistband. He was pulling the leggings down to
his ankles. He was spitting onto his hands and stroking his hard cock.
He was grabbing Anborn’s hips and rubbing his cock against the
flat, white buttocks. He was –
From between clenched teeth, Anborn gave a small cry of pain and terror.
That cry pierced Faramir’s numbness. White-hot anger blazed
in his chest. His arms and legs were suddenly loosed. He sprang forward,
sword in hand, and bore Ecthorn to the ground. Ecthorn was a big man
and a seasoned warrior; under other circumstances, he might well have
crushed Faramir by force, if not by skill. But the Captain had not been
expecting this assault, and he was hobbled by the leggings that effectively
bound his feet. Before he knew what had happened, he was on his back
with Faramir’s sword at his throat.
The guards stepped forward menacingly. But they faltered, their hands
poised above their sword hilts. Where did their obedience lie? With
their Captain? With the ruling Steward’s younger son? Faramir
himself didn’t know who outranked whom, and neither, it seemed,
did anyone else.
No one moved. Ecthorn was breathing hard. He eyed his assailant as
if trying to gauge how serious the younger man was, or how dangerous.
Faramir stared back at him. His sword never budged.
“My lord,” Ecthorn began when he’d recovered from
his surprise. “You’ve had a shock. Our ways seem rough to
you. I see that. If you’ll just let me explain –“
“Explain?” Faramir’s voice was low and hard. It
sounded like someone else’s voice, not his own at all. What was
he doing? “Explain? Who in all Gondor could possibly explain the
abomination I just witnessed? The orcs of Mordor might understand you,
Captain, but I do not.”
“Right,” said Ecthorn. His forehead was damp with sweat.
“Clearly there’s been a mistake. You think I’m like
that boy there, or the others who bend over for us men. It isn’t
so. I assure you, my lord, if we had women here we wouldn’t need
such scum. But there are no women in Ithilien, not now. So we take what
we can. Your father knows how to keep us loyal.”
“My father is two days ride from here,” said Faramir.
“It is my father’s son, Captain, who will judge you now.”
Judge? Faramir wondered at himself. He hadn’t meant to interfere,
yet here he was seizing authority far beyond his reach. But he couldn’t
stop now. With sword held steady in his hand, he raised his voice for
all to hear. “If there is a man in this cave who would see these
Skewerings come to an end, I ask him to step forward!”
For a moment nothing happened. The silence was complete. A smirk crept
across Ecthorn’s face.
Then a slight rustle was heard. A man stood up and advanced toward
Faramir. He was tall and dark-bearded, a warrior in the prime of his
life – Faramir could see him now as he moved into the torchlight
– not handsome, perhaps, but keen-eyed and strong. His sword was
in his hand. At five paces away, he stopped. Then he sank to one knee.
“My lord,” he said. “Command me.”
Faramir realized he’d been holding his breath. He let it out
in a long sigh. Whatever he thought he was doing, it all could have
ended at this moment.
“What is your name?” he asked the man.
“I am Mablung, my lord.”
“Mablung, please rise. It is not my place to command you, for
I am not your captain. Indeed, it seems you have no captain worthy of
the name. Yet I entreat you, for pity’s sake, to gather this boy’s
clothing and help him dress.”
“Gladly, my lord.”
“And Mablung.”
“Yes, my lord?”
“The boy is called Anborn.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Mablung went to Anborn, who had
been thrown down during the assault. Faramir noted the gentleness with
which he helped the boy to his feet. Perhaps, he thought, there were
those in Ithilien who chafed under this tyranny. How many? No matter.
They deserved a better captain than Ecthorn.
Ecthorn. Faramir had business with him, business he had expected to
conduct less dramatically as well as less publicly. Discretion would
not be possible now. All the grief of the last few months, all the despair
that had driven him here, came down to this.
“Sir,” he said to Ecthorn. “If I’m right,
this Skewering you take such pride in is common practice. Yes?”
“Not so common as all that,” Ecthorn replied hastily.
“My lord, if I may beg you to move your sword – “
“You may beg nothing! Answer my questions truly, for if you
lie I assure you I will know it. My father sees deeply, and in that
I am his true son.” Faramir hoped that this was true. Mithrandir
had told him it was, but he himself was not so sure. “I ask you
again: is this Skewering common practice?”
Ecthorn nodded. He seemed all but hypnotized by Faramir’s apparent
calm.
“I believe you,” said Faramir. “Now, you pretend
to know nothing of the boys who are sent here, but I think you know
a great deal: their names, to start with. You might even know their
ages, their parentage and the nature of their supposed transgressions.
Yes?”
“I am not . . . uninformed, my lord.”
“No.” The time had come. Faramir swallowed. “Then
perhaps you remember a boy who came here some months ago. He was eighteen
years old, pale, slender, a poor fighter.” And Anborn, standing
naked and vulnerable, exposed to all these dozens of men, looked so
much like him that Faramir’s cock had grown hard. How could he
feel such things? He bit his lip. His heart was pounding in his chest,
and he could barely think over the roar of blood in his ears. Yet outwardly
his stillness remained complete. In a moment, for better or worse, the
mystery that had obsessed him so relentlessly would be solved.
“The boy’s name,” he said, “was Edrahil.”
“I may have seen the boy,” Ecthorn admitted with obvious
reluctance.
“You saw him. And you raped him, didn’t you – as
you so nearly raped young Anborn just now?”
“Raped?” Ecthorn tried to laugh. “You can’t
rape such boys as these. You don’t understand, my lord. They’ve
been had already. Long before they come here, they’ve whored themselves
with their friends. They’re trash, my lord. We use them and we
throw them away. If you’ll just let me up – “
“I think not!” Faramir’s voice cut the air like
a whiplash. He heard it echoing round the walls of the cave. Then, quietly
again, he went on. “So Edrahil was a victim of one of your . .
. Skewerings. What happened after that? How did he die?”
“I couldn’t say exactly,” Ecthorn told him evasively.
“We like to send them out on small missions, just to get their
feet wet. Down to the crossroads, for instance, so they can see what
the orc troops are up to.”
“A dangerous mission.” Faramir had read of the crossroads.
One road led to Minas Morgul and was much used by its servants. “Your
own guards go with them?”
“Well, no. That is, someone may see them on their way, just
to make sure they’re going in the right direction. Then they’re
on their own. It’s not as bad as it sounds, my lord. Most of the
lads come back safe enough. Three quarters of them at least! And those
that don’t are the ones we’d just as soon not keep anyway.
So it works out well for everyone.”
“Did it work out well for Edrahil?”
Ecthorn blanched.
“My lord – I see you knew this boy. Maybe you made a friend
of him back in the city. But I’m telling you, he wasn’t
what you thought. He got what he had coming to him! They all do, and
no one mourns for them when they’re gone.”
Faramir gave a strangled cry. Never in his life had he felt such rage.
It was all he could do to keep his sword out of Ecthorn’s throat.
“No one mourns?” he shouted, his self-control spent. “I
mourn, Captain Ecthorn! I’ve done nothing but mourn since the
day a messenger brought news of Edrahil’s death. He was my lover.
And you killed him! You may think I came here for vengeance. You are
wrong. I came here first for truth and then for death. But I’ve
found more truth and more death than I ever intended or wanted. I’ve
found the graves of a hundred Edrahils, a long line of Edrahils, who
went to their deaths in a place where the love of men should be honored
and cherished as it once was. I mourn them all, Captain! They are the
fallen brothers I never knew, and I mourn every one of them!”
Ecthorn was speechless. Faramir looked out over the shadowed crowd.
“Men of Ithilien! Am I alone? Do I mourn alone for my brothers?
Mablung, you tell me – is there anyone here who mourns for the
boys who died?”
Mablung stood a few feet away with the wide-eyed Anborn and Damrod.
He laid his hands on their shoulders.
“My lord,” he said. “You are not alone. I mourn the
ones who died. They were my brothers too. I nearly shared their grave
with them. Twelve years ago I came here, when I was just eighteen, and
on my first day I found out what a Skewering was. Many more have found
out since then. Many have died, and many that have not died have wished
they had. You are not alone, my lord. I mourn with you, both for the
dead and for the living.”
Another man stepped out of the crowd and stood beside Mablung.
“I mourn too, my lord,” he said, “for your Edrahil
and for more that might have lived to become our friends.”
“And so do I,” said another, who joined those that had
gone before. “And I,” said another. Yet another followed,
then two more, then five. They gathered behind Mablung and Anborn and
Damrod, their numbers swelling by the minute. On and on they came, till
their band grew more numerous than those they had left behind.
Ecthorn watched the procession with a mixture of fear and unconcealed
loathing. Faramir, however, watched with incredulity. So many men! He
shook his head in wonder. Who were they? Ecthorn’s victims, clearly
– but what else? Had every one been sent here for the same transgression
– the love of men, as Mithrandir called it? Months ago, in Minas
Tirith, on a night when Faramir had contemplated taking his own life,
Mithrandir had said, “The love of men can find honor again, Faramir,
but only if it first finds a new champion.” Was that champion
here among them even now? Was it Mablung? Or Damrod? Or even young Anborn,
who, from his expression, seemed to feel the power of the men behind
him like a living force? He was standing straighter, taller, his eyes
aglow, his head high. Faramir knew that he himself would follow any
one of them, now, this minute, to whatever end. He wished he could.
Yet it was to him, to Faramir that they looked for guidance in this
hour. And that may have been the greatest wonder of all. Was it also
the cruelest irony?
Faramir felt in his heart that he was no champion. He was too damaged,
too used, to lead others. For five years he had prostituted himself
to his own brother. Then he had let his beautiful Edrahil ride off,
as he now knew, to degradation and death. He had thought of nothing
else ever since, and now he had come here to find his own end. What
could he give these men that was worthy of their sudden, blazing hope?
“Perhaps you have already given it.”
Unbidden, the thought sprang into his mind. The men believed in him.
He could see it in their eyes. Rightly or wrongly, they believed that
their champion had arisen. Perhaps his own salvation lay in this. For
if he had given them belief, however unwittingly, then their belief
might carry the day when he himself could not. And this day must surely
be theirs. Henneth Annûn must be theirs. He, Faramir, must give it to
them.
He looked at Ecthorn. “You will leave this place,” he said,
loudly enough for all to hear. “Take your guards and go. Any who
wish may go with you. There will be a new captain here, and I don’t
think you’ll like the way he runs things.”
CHAPTER TWO
“Here we are!” announced Mablung, slapping the enormous
trunk of an even more enormous tree. He was doing his best not to laugh.
Faramir looked at the tree. Anborn and Damrod looked at Faramir.
“There must be something I’m not seeing,” said Faramir.
“This is a tree.”
“It is that, my lord,” grinned Mablung. “It’s
also where we’re spending the night. Watch.” He dropped
his pack on the ground and dug a long coil of rope out of it. With practiced
ease, he tossed one end high into the air so that it sailed gracefully
over the lowest of the tree’s branches, far above their heads.
Down fell the rope, doubling back on itself. Mablung twisted the two
ends together, then handed them to Faramir.
“If you’ll just get a firm grip on these, my lord,”
he said, “I will climb up and see what there is to be seen.”
Faramir complied. Mablung lost no time in swarming up the rope, and
moments later he had hoisted himself onto the branch. Then he disappeared
into the twilit shadows of the leafy canopy.
The others gazed after him. By now they trusted Mablung absolutely
(which was fortunate, for they would have been helpless without him),
but his present antics defeated their understanding. Tree-climbing!
And with night coming on and orcs on the prowl. Was he going to throw
down the makings of a shelter, or perhaps a collection of blankets and
pillows?
Neither, as it turned out. What did come tumbling down was a rope ladder,
evidently secured to an unseen branch high in the canopy.
“Is this for us, my lord?” asked Anborn, examining the
ladder with interest.
Faramir pulled down the first rope and began coiling it. “Very
likely,” he said. “Though what we’ll find when we
climb it is anyone’s guess. You two go first while I hold this
end. I’ll follow last of all.”
Anborn and Damrod weren’t happy with this plan. Ever since Ecthorn’s
spectacular exit (it was only a week ago, but already it felt like an
age), they seemed to see themselves as Faramir’s personal attendants.
It was rather embarrassing. They kept his clothes clean, they brought
him his food, they took turns guarding him while he slept – it
had become quite a joke among the rangers, who affectionately called
them, “His lordship’s maids.” Now they balked at the
notion of leaving him alone and unprotected, even for a moment.
“This is enemy territory!” they scolded. “There’s
no telling who or what might be lurking nearby. You’d better go
up first, my lord.”
“The sun hasn’t set yet,” Faramir told them as patiently
as he could. “Orcs won’t be abroad for another hour. Please,
I’ll be perfectly safe.”
In the end he was forced to issue a direct order. This stuck in his
craw, for he still insisted that he was not in command and that a new
captain would eventually be chosen from among the rangers themselves.
But even Mablung smiled knowingly when he talked this way. As for the
rest of the men, they were obviously so delighted to be taking orders
from him that he was at his wits’ end.
Up the ladder went Anborn. Damrod nearly killed himself going second;
he kept scouting for enemies on the ground rather than watching his
own hands and feet. Both boys finally disappeared into the canopy without
mishap.
Faramir watched their ascent with pride and exasperation. His whole
Ithilien adventure had taken on a life of its own, and these two boy-men
encapsulated both its joys and its annoyances. What was he to do about
them? They clearly felt (and everyone else just as clearly agreed) that
they owed their deliverance to him and him alone – and he had
to admit that appearances favored this view. After all, it was he who
had held a sword to their oppressor’s throat. Yet Faramir also
understood how deeply he owed his success, not to any great qualities
he himself possessed, but rather to two factors out of his control:
first, his parentage; and second, the men themselves. Ecthorn’s
guards would have killed him in an instant if he’d been anyone
other than Denethor’s son. And they might still have done so in
the end if Mablung had not led the men to their own bloodless coup.
It was unity, not heroism, that finally won the day.
But Faramir could not seem to convince them of this. He had stopped
them calling him Captain Faramir, which they’d shown a disposition
to do right from the start, but he couldn’t seem quell the hero-worship
that went with it.
What made it all so awkward was the fact that he could not stay in
Ithilien. Everything had changed. True, he’d decided that seeking
his own death was a bad plan. The future looked a great deal brighter
than it had seven days ago, and he wanted a place in it. If he could
have found a way to demote himself and join the rangers as the new recruit
he truly was, he would have done so without hesitation. More and more,
though, he saw that he would always be regarded as Captain Faramir whether
he liked it or not. This he could not allow. These men, these brave,
beautiful Rangers of Ithilien, deserved a real leader. And they wouldn’t
find that leader till Faramir left.
At least there was work to keep him occupied in the meantime. He saw
a great need for change, not only in the men’s treatment but also
in their day-to-day life. Supplies, storage, distribution of food, training,
reconnaissance, all had to be retooled. Mablung had many good ideas
about this. Together, they set about it with a will.
Faramir also wanted to learn his way around Ithilien. Again, it was
the invaluable Mablung who offered to be his guide and suggested an
initial three-day hike, with others to follow when circumstances permitted.
The original foray was not to have included Anborn and Damrod; however,
they loaded up their packs anyway and presented themselves at departure
time. They, too, needed to spy out the land, they said, and in any case
someone had to look after things on the road. Faramir couldn’t
bring himself to turn them away. Mablung smiled behind his hand.
All this lurked in Faramir’s mind as, with much swinging and
clutching, he followed the two boys up Mablung’s rope ladder and
into the tree’s great crown.
He didn’t expect to find much by way of accommodations. It came
as a great surprise, therefore, when he penetrated the canopy, peered
through the gathering dusk and saw above him a shadowy structure built
among sturdy branches. Hands reached down through a square opening and
pulled him up. Then they pulled the rope ladder up after him.
“Welcome to the tree house!” said a beaming Mablung.
“House” may have been too grand a word for it. Yet the
thing was elegant in its way. Not much more than a broad flat floor
with simple railings, it nevertheless offered a spacious and well-hidden
waystation for the rangers.
“Isn’t it wonderful, my lord?” cried Damrod. “Mablung
says orcs have no way of knowing it’s even here.”
“That’s right,” Mablung confirmed. “The rope
ladder is the only way up. When it’s stowed, even their finest
sniffers can’t figure out where we’ve got to.”
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” said Faramir.
“How did you think of it?”
“I did a bit of reading, my lord, in my younger days. History,
of course, but also legends of ancient times – elvish legends
about the Land of Lórien. Perilous, they say it is now. But I read about
the tree dwellings of the Golden Wood, and I thought, ‘We could
do that in Ithilien.’ That was the beginning of it.”
“Marvelous!” Faramir looked about him with renewed admiration.
“Grown men sleeping in trees! Some people must have thought your
were out of your mind.”
“They did!” laughed Mablung. “Captain Ecthorn, for
one. I made the mistake of telling him about it before I began. He scoffed,
naturally, and ordered me to give up the idea. I pretended to do so.
But a few of my friends thought it could work, and we built it ourselves
in secret. Not that we didn’t encounter a few problems. Just picking
the right tree took longer than you might think.”
“But you finished it in the end,” said Anborn. “I
think it’s beautiful.”
Mablung glowed. “Thanks, lad. Mind you, Captain Ecthorn wouldn’t
have agreed. But we made sure he never found out what we’d done.
Now, we don’t have much time. Let’s get things arranged
before it’s too dark to see.” He leaned over the railing
and reached into the gloom. A moment later he had produced three heavy
bags that hung on neighboring branches. These he threw down on the platform
at the boys’ feet. “Look inside,” he said. “And
we’ll make ourselves comfortable.”
Out of the bags came blankets, mats and skins full of water. Faramir
watched while the boys busied themselves, exclaiming over each article
as it appeared.
“You’re a wonder, Mablung,” he said quietly. “Doing
all this with no help from your captain. I wonder that you found the
strength.”
“Strength to make a safe place for a few downtrodden men?”
Mablung shook his head. “You know better than that, your lordship.
Once the idea came to me, I had to go through with it. I had no choice,
any more than you had a choice when Ecthorn –“ He paused
and looked at Anborn. The boy was laughing at something Damrod had said.
“You understand me.”
“A refuge,” said Faramir, unexpectedly moved.
“More than a refuge,” said Mablung. “A little piece
of home in the wild. And even though things have changed, my lordship
– even though Henneth Annûn is more homelike now than I ever thought
possible – I hope you’ll still feel at home in my treehouse.
I’m proud to welcome you here. I’m proud to serve you.”
“No one is serving me!” Faramir said automatically. He
turned away from Mablung and leaned his hands on the rail. “I
wish I could make you all understand that. Of course you need a captain,
but it cannot be me.”
The boys looked up in surprise, their hands full of matting.
“My lord,” said Damrod. “Why do you keep saying that?
Don’t you like us?”
“It’s not you!” Faramir replied, more curtly than
he intended. “It’s me. I’m not ready to lead. I’m
not –“ He was going to say “worthy,” but at
the last moment he thought better of it. “I’m not seasoned,”
he finished lamely.
Anborn started to speak. Mablung motioned for silence. He gripped Faramir’s
shoulder.
“I do not know what strange mood is on you,” he said quietly.
“But I do know this. There are men here among us who do their
work well. Long years lie behind them, and much wisdom, and each day
they acquit themselves with honor. Yet not one of them can lead this
company. Why? Because they lack the fire that makes men say, ‘You
are my captain and I will lay down my life for you.’ If even one
of them possessed that fire, Captain Ecthorn would have been driven
out long before now. But he was not driven out – not until seven
days ago.
“Seven days ago, we found our captain. We have no illusions about
him. He is young, he is inexperienced, he is unsure of himself. In someone
else these would be grievous faults, but in our captain they are great
strengths. For he does not scorn the wisdom of those around him. He
gratefully accepts help when it is offered. He learns as he leads. With
his every word, with his every action, he calls out what is best in
his men and makes them strive to deserve his love. He has the fire!
Now that we’ve found him, we won’t let him go without a
struggle.”
Faramir sank down onto the mat that Anborn had laid out for him. It
was softer than he’d expected. He sat as if he weren’t quite
sure it was meant for him.
“Mablung,” he said. “You’re describing a man
I’ve never met. Where can I find him? I long to know him.”
“Look in young Anborn’s eyes,” said Mablung. “Or
Damrod’s, or mine. Look for your own reflection there. You’ll
see the man I speak of. That is our captain. That is the man we love.”
Faramir sighed. His mind refused to grasp what Mablung was telling
him. “I can see nothing,” he said. “It has grown too
dark. Forgive me, Mablung. Let me look again in the morning, and then
I’ll tell you what I see.”
“Of course, my lord. You’re tired and hungry. We all are.
Let’s see what food Anborn and Damrod have stowed in our packs.”
As the twilight deepened around them, they ate companionably and talked
of less weighty matters. Bread, dried meat and cheese were their simple
fare, passed from hand to hand and washed down with water from Mablung’s
store. Crickets could be heard nearby, their music drifting up through
the still summer evening. Stars appeared through the leaves overhead.
When they had finished, Anborn said, “Mablung, can I ask you
a question?”
Mablung said he could. “Well,” the boy went on. “You
told us you built this treehouse just for you and your friends. You
must have spent a lot of nights up here. So what I want to know is,
what did you and your friends do? After dark, I mean?”
“I was wondering that same thing,” put in Damrod. “Back
home it would still be too early for bed. We’re not sleepy, and
anyway it’s too warm to get under the blankets. We can’t
light a torch because then the enemy would know we’re here. How
do we pass the time?”
“How indeed?” Mablung chuckled. “I suspect you youngsters
could hazard a guess or two. What do you think?”
Damrod gave a nervous laugh, but Anborn spoke right up. “I think
– I mean, it occurred to me, since your friends got on so well
with each other – I mean, you must have been very comfortable
together.”
“Yes,” said Mablung. “And?”
“And – well, we all know why we were sent here. Captain
Ecthorn told us himself, didn’t he? We all like boys, don’t
we?”
Faramir felt uneasy with the direction this conversation was taking.
“What Captain Ecthorn said is not our concern,” he declared
sternly. “Mablung and I have no interest in emulating anything
he did. We didn’t bring you here for – for that sort of
thing. You’re safe with us, Anborn. I want you to believe that.”
“Oh, we know you’d never hurt us!” Damrod said quickly.
“Don’t we, Anborn?”
“That’s right!” Anborn agreed. “You shouldn’t
compare yourself to that man, my lord. When he touched me the way he
did, it was horrible. He was horrible! But that doesn’t mean it
would be horrible if someone else touched me. Someone I cared about.
Someone I admired.”
“Exactly!” said Damrod. “So we were thinking about
your friends, Mablung. We thought that maybe you – that they –
well, that there was touching. Up here. Right where we’re sitting.”
“Damrod, I don’t think we need to –“
Faramir’s reproof was interrupted by a sudden snort. It was Mablung.
He sat doubled over as if in pain, and his shoulders were heaving.
“He’s choking!” cried Faramir. Genuinely alarmed,
he leaped across the platform and wrapped his strong arms around Mablung’s
middle. Then he gave a mighty squeeze. Both men tumbled over backward.
Mablung was laughing helplessly, as Faramir realized when he struggled
to his knees.
Anborn and Damrod were giggling too. They put their heads together
and abandoned themselves to their own hilarity. Faramir watched in confusion.
“I don’t see what’s so funny,” he said. “I
wish the three of you would calm down and tell me what’s going
on.”
Mablung sat up wiping his eyes. “Oh, my lord!” he wheezed.
“Don’t you see? Our two young gentlemen have figured out
what this treehouse is really for. They’re feeling frisky and
they want to do something about it. And I, for one, think it’s
a fine idea.”
“Mablung!”
“Well, why not? We all like boys, as Anborn pointed out. And
we all like each other. Why not seize the opportunity to enjoy ourselves?
I don’t mind telling you, my lord, it’s exactly what I had
in mind all along.”
“Well said, Mablung!” cried Damrod.
“We couldn’t have put it better!” said Anborn.
Faramir stared at them. What the boys really wanted had sunk in at
last, and he didn’t know what he should think. Just one week ago
he’d erupted in fury when Anborn came within a hair’s breadth
of being raped. He’d hated himself for growing hard at the sight
of it! What kind of monster, he’d wondered, would force himself
an innocent lad? And now this same innocent lad was all but demanding
a night of unbridled lust! Did Anborn think he, Faramir, was a monster?
Could he be right?
“My lord.” Mablung reached over and took Faramir’s
hands in his. “Listen to the boys. You mustn’t compare yourself
to Ecthorn. What he did with contempt, you will do with love. So will
I and so will the boys. Believe me, it makes all the difference in the
world.”
There was no gainsaying them. And as Faramir looked at the shadowed
faces before him, he realized that he loved them. He loved all his men,
the whole lot of them. Often during the last seven days, he’d
caught himself watching them as they worked, talked, slept or –
best of all – washed themselves in water from the waterfall. Short
men, tall men, lanky men, stout men, beardless boys and grizzled graybeards
– he loved every one and dreamed of taking them in his arms. He
dreamed of them by day, when, despite his best efforts, his waking fantasies
ran wild. He dreamed of them by night, when he resisted touching himself
because Anborn dozed on one side and Damrod kept guard on the other.
Twice he’d woken up sticky from wet dreams.
And now . . .
“How can I?” he asked helplessly. “Everyone looks
up to me. Everyone counts on me. How can I think of betraying them?”
Mablung placed his strong hands on Faramir’s face. “There
is no betrayal,” he said. “Not in taking what is gladly
given, nor in giving what is truly desired.”
“Truly desired? Mablung? Truly desired . . . ?”
The question trailed off, for Mablung’s face was drawing nearer.
A roughness of dark beard brushed Faramir’s smooth cheeks. Full
lips grazed his skin. There were fingers in Faramir’s hair, there
was warm breath on his temples, there were warm lips on his forehead,
his ears, his eyes. He heard himself groaning.
“Truly desired,” whispered the lips that were searching
his face. “Deeply desired. Deeply loved. Faramir!”
The lips were on his lips, barely touching them, tracing slow patterns
across the gentle curves. Faramir opened his mouth and felt his breath
mingling with the breath of Mablung. It caught briefly in his chest,
then shuddered out in short, panting gusts. He leaned his head back
and the lips moved down his chin to his neck, where they nibbled and
tickled. A wet, eager tongue appeared, lashing his throat.
Faramir wanted that tongue! He caught Mablung’s face in his hands
and raised it to his mouth. Their lips pressed together, hard and open
now, and their tongues pushed against each other. Mablung’s tongue
snaked past his, penetrating the deep places beyond lips and teeth.
Faramir sucked at it, licked the underside of it with his own tongue,
stroked it with his lips. Mablung’s hands were under his arms,
drawing him up onto his feet, pulling their torsos together. Their chests
and bellies connected, all but fusing from breastbone to hip. Their
arms wound around each other, their hands grasped fistfuls of cloth
and flesh.
But surely there were too many hands! Faramir felt them everywhere
– now on his head, now on his neck, moving down his back, squeezing
his buttocks, kneading his thighs. Where had they come from, these questing
hands?
He turned his head and gazed into the shadowed eyes of Anborn. So that
was it! At a touch on his opposite shoulder, he turned again and saw
Damrod’s twilight features. Their two faces darted together between
his own and Mablung’s. They kissed each other ravenously.
“Mischief!” exclaimed Mablung, laughing. “Help me,
my lord! We’ll have our way with these two young scamps or die
trying!”
He pulled them apart by the hair. Faramir winced. Far from minding,
however, Damrod promptly launched himself at Mablung. They sank onto
a mat, locked in each other’s arms.
As for Anborn, he touched Faramir’s cheek with sudden shyness.
“My lord,” he said. “You know this is what I want,
don’t you? It’s all I’ve wanted since that moment
in the cave. Maybe it’s all I ever wanted, before I even met you.
Please, my lord – say you want it too. Hold me.”
Faramir smiled. “Anborn,” he said. “I can hardly
see you now, in the dark. But only a madman could resist you.”
He took Anborn in his arms, pressed the young head against his shoulder
and stroked the smooth dark hair. He felt the young lungs expanding
against his chest, then breathing out a sigh of utter happiness. And
Faramir’s own happiness welled up in him like a spring that has
been blocked for many years. “Come, then,” he said. “Kiss
me.”
Anborn did not need to be told twice. He attacked Faramir’s mouth,
crushing his lips and sucking at his tongue. His hands found their way
to Faramir’s buttocks, probing the cleft, pushing at the fabric
that held them back. Stymied, they made their way up to his throat,
where they tugged insistently at the leather ties.
“If this were my birthday,” Anborn murmured huskily, “I’d
say you were my best present. Let me unwrap you!”
Damrod was beside them, and Mablung appeared at Faramir’s back.
“Let’s all unwrap him,” Mablung said. “But
slowly, slowly. The night is ours. There’s no need to rush.”
So the unwrapping began. Faramir was not allowed to help at all, and
once he realized this he gave himself up with breathless abandon. The
boys took turns kissing him while they teased out one leather thong
after another. Mablung nuzzled neck and shoulders, and his hips moved
languidly against Faramir’s backside. His hard codk pressed deep
into muscled flesh. Faramir, too, grew hard, the front of his leggings
stretched almost to tearing. A fire burned in his cock and balls, and
when Damrod brushed against them he gave a hoarse cry.
“Gently,” crooned Mablung’s voice in his ear. “I
think we can take off this tunic now, and see what’s underneath.”
He was right. The last of the thongs had given way. Faramir felt the
tunic peeling back over his shoulders. Already, while Mablung eased
it down his arms, Anborn and Damrod were diving headfirst into his chest
and belly. He whimpered as one bit into his right nipple and the other
licked his left. Their hands slid smoothly in the sweat that had formed
around his navel. As a small boy he used to scream and run away when
Boromir tickled him. What sweet torment this tickling was! His abdominal
muscles seemed almost to dance as lips and tongues darted up and down,
across and back. Sometimes the boys met in the middle and briefly kissed
one another while Faramir gazed fondly down at them. But they parted
almost at once and returned to their feast.
Night had fallen. The moon was rising, and Faramir glimpsed it through
the leaves. It’s light silvered the heads of his tormenters, together
with his own bare chest. He could see better now than he had at twilight,
and he longed to strip all clothing from these three bodies that moved
so enchantingly against him. When he raised his hands, however, Mablung
held them back.
“Not yet, my lord,” he said. “Let us have our moment.
You’ll have yours soon enough. Boys – let’s see about
these boots and leggings.”
At once they raised Faramir’s left foot and began to pull. Mablung
held him upright while first one boot, then the other, was safely removed.
Their hands slid up, up both legs, caressing calves, knees and thighs,
till they reached his bursting crotch. One of them, he couldn’t
have said which, nibbled at his bulge, fabric and all. The other (he
now saw that it was Damrod) undid the leggings. Mablung helped, sliding
his fingers under the waistband. Down came the leggings, and Faramir
stepped out of them. At last he was naked.
Fingers on his balls, lips on his cock, teeth on his nipples! And now,
to make matters worse, Mablung knelt behind him and began – oh!
– to lick gently, enticingly, up and down his cleft. Faramir couldn’t
seem to stop moaning. That teasing tongue drove deeper; round cheeks
were spread wide and Mablung’s tongue found its way to the opening
itself, where it wriggled for a time. Then a finger replaced it, smearing
something warm and slick from side to side. Lubenas oil, Faramir guessed.
He would have cried out, but Damrod was on his feet and kissing him
hard, while Anborn kissed and licked his cock and balls.
Mablung knew his business. Inexorably, his oiled finger made its way
past the gripping muscles and deep into the pulsing heat of Faramir’s
body. One finger became two, and both steered a straight course toward
the inner nubs of man’s ecstasy. Faramir had never been touched
there before. At first contact he buried his face convulsively in Damrod’s
neck.
Anborn had just engulfed his cock, which swelled suddenly in his mouth.
Mablung pushed a little harder, just there – Anborn gripped the
base of his ball sac – Faramir’s climax gathered in his
loins like a dam bursting. Waves of heat flooded his body – his
fingers dug into Damrod’s shoulders – his cock was pumping,
pumping – loud cries squeezed out between his teeth. Where had
the air gone? He was gasping and groaning, shooting into Anborn’s
mouth, his muscles clenching hard on Mablung’s fingers, his teeth
scraping Damrod’s neck. There was nothing else in the world, no
tree house, no forest, no moon, only his spasming body and the three
men who so plainly loved it.
As his climax slowly faded, the three closed around him. Anborn, standing
up, continued to squeeze his sagging cock, sending small aftershocks
down his thighs. Mablung held his fingers deep in Faramir’s body,
motionless yet warmly solid and reassuring. All three kissed and stroked
his face, his neck, his shoulders. And now, finally, Mablung allowed
him to touch them back. One after another, he kissed and caressed their
faces, so near in the transfiguring moonlight.
“I’m awfully glad we’re here,” murmured Anborn.
“Aren’t you glad, Damrod?”
“Oh, yes!” said Damrod. “This is the best night of
my life. Isn’t it wonderful, my lord?”
“Wonderful doesn’t begin to describe it,” Faramir
said dreamily. “And it doesn’t even come close to describing
you fellows. Mablung?”
“Yes, my lord?”
“You must teach me how to do that.”
“How to do what?”
“That. What you’ve been doing. Your fingers.”
“Us too!” said Damrod.
“Yes!” said Anborn. “I couldn’t see much, but
I could tell what was happening.”
“It’s still happening now,” grinned Faramir. “Take
a look.”
They both got down on their knees and peered at Faramir’s backside.
“It’s too dark to see properly!” Damrod complained
when he’d examined the situation from every possible angle. “You’ll
just have to let us try it ourselves.”
“Yes, we want to try,” Anborn agreed.
“Giving or receiving?” asked Mablung.
“Both!” they answered at the same time.
“Very well, if you must,” Mablung chuckled. “My lord,
may I please have my fingers back?”
The fingers were returned intact, but only on condition that everyone
who still had clothes on should remove them at once. They took turns
undoing each other’s fastenings, though Faramir insisted on handling
most of it. He took obvious delight in exploring and sampling three
such different bodies.
Mablung was tall, lean and long-muscled, with dark hair on his chest,
buttocks and legs. Anborn was almost as tall but considerably slenderer,
as if his body were still growing into its added height. He had almost
no body hair – just a curly brown triangle between his legs. Damrod
was shorter and rather stocky, with just a sprinkle of hair on his chest.
Moreover, as Faramir found when he introduced himself to the young man’s
crotch, Damrod possessed an extraordinarily long and streamlined cock
that curved upward just slightly. It was quickly dubbed “Damrod’s
ramrod,” and Faramir couldn’t resist bringing it almost
to climax before Mablung stopped him.
“Fingers first!” chided Mablung when Faramir objected.
“Then climax. It felt good for you, didn’t it?”
Faramir agreed that it did. “Let’s have our lesson, then,”
he said. “Master Mablung, would you begin?”
Mablung instructed the boys to lie face down on their mats. Then he
rifled through his discarded tunic and produced a small vial.
“Lubenas!” said Faramir. “I thought so. Where did
you get it?”
“The plant grows wild here in Ithilien,” Mablung explained.
“But I always keep some in my pack, and more here at the treehouse.
Pour it into your hand, my lord.”
Faramir did and the lesson began. First they warmed the oil by rubbing
it between their palms. Then they massaged it into the clefts that lay
so temptingly before them. Faramir, who had Anborn to work on, loved
the feel of muscles contracting and releasing in their own age-old rhythm.
He looked forward to the morning, when he could do it all over again
in full light. Now, though, it was thrilling to manage by moonlight
alone.
The time had come to approach the puckered opening. He was instructed
to slide his hands back and forth, a little harder each time, and then
to tickle the outer ring of muscle with one oiled finger. As the ring
relaxed, the tickling finger could move a little deeper, then deeper
still. Soon Faramir felt the warm, moist interior opening before him.
Following Mablung’s lead, he pushed on gradually toward the sweet
spot.
Both boys had been sighing and humming audibly from the start. Now,
suddenly, Damrod gave a sharp cry of surprise. Mablung had found what
he was looking for.
“You don’t need much pressure,” he told Faramir.
“Just the lightest touch, and then – “
“Ah!” Damrod gasped and closed his eyes. “Don’t
stop!” he begged. “It’s unbelievable!”
Faramir, watching, knew very well what Damrod must be feeling, and
he wanted Anborn to feel it too. He probed deeper.
“I don’t think think I feel it yet,” Anborn said.
“It feels good, but – oh!”
“That would be it,” Mablung said, smiling. “Now,
gently . . .”
Anborn was already quivering and mewing. Faramir listened in awe. He
could have kept this up all night, if only for the astounding sounds
he drew from the boy’s throat. Beyond that, though, he was enchanted
by the tight, hot embrace of Anborn’s body. He had never imagined
that so small a thing as a finger could feel so welcomed, or so loved.
Mablung hadn’t finished yet. More fingers should be introduced,
he said, stretching and massaging as they went. Faramir was only too
happy to obey, and the boys loved it all. Soon their expanded openings
accommodated three fingers each, and the moans and mews reached fever
pitch.
“Mablung!” Damrod panted. “I’m ready now.”
“Ready for what?” Mablung asked slyly.
“For your cock!” Damrod pleaded. “I want your cock
inside me!”
“I’m ready too!” said Anborn, not to be left out.
“Please, my lord!”
Mablung was already oiling his cock with one hand while the other kept
up its interior twiddling. “I don’t know about that,”
he said with an air of great amusement. “It seems like a terrible
imposition on our time and energy. Doesn’t it, my lord?”
Faramir made no reply. He’d gone rigid with surprise. These men
were asking him to do what his unthinking brother had done to him –
what had wracked him with pain, body and soul, for five years. It was
what the hated Ecthorn had done to so many new recruits, including Edrahil.
The thought of doing it to Anborn paralyzed Faramir. And yet, at the
same time, he saw his cock growing hard again.
“My lord?”
Faramir spoke with difficulty.
“But Mablung – won’t it – doesn’t it
–“
“Hurt? A little, right at first. But our boys are well prepared.
And now you know what to aim for, don’t you? That same spot you’ve
been tickling for the last ten minutes. Just take your time and all
will be well.”
“Begging your pardon, my lord,” Anborn said. “But
I know what you’re thinking. And I tell you, it’s me that
wants it! You can’t leave me like this. It would be inhuman!”
“All right! All right!” Faramir couldn’t ignore the
imploring note in Anborn’s voice. “But Mablung, I can’t
do it when he’s on his stomach like this. I need to see his face,
even if it’s only by moonlight. I have to see for myself that
he’s –“
“Not in pain? Of course, my lord. Anborn, would you mind turning
over? That’s right. And bring your knees up to your chest.”
Anborn obeyed.
“Now, my lord, roll up this blanket and tuck it under his tailbone.”
Faramir did so, as tenderly as if he were handling fine glass.
“Now a little more fingerplay. Very good. How do you feel, Anborn?”
Anborn was gazing adoringly up at the shadowed face of Faramir. “I
like this,” he said. “I’m ready.”
“Damrod,” said Mablung. “Are you ready?”
“Ready and waiting!”
“Ready, my lord?”
For all his misgivings, Faramir had never been so hard in his life.
It didn’t seem possible after the shattering climax he’d
endured just a short while earlier; but there it was.
“Ready,” he said.
“Very well,” said Mablung. “Slow and strong.”
Faramir took a moment to lean down and kiss the dear, delectable boy
who lay beneath him. If he must do this, he told himself, he would make
sure of one thing: Anborn would know he was loved. At every instant,
with every thrust, Anborn must see and feel and hear the love that Faramir
felt for him. This, he understood as his tongue danced in Anborn’s
mouth, would be the creed of Henneth of Annûn. The love of men, as Mithrandir
called it, must be love indeed. Never, while Faramir was there, would
any man be forced against his will. Never would any man endure pain
for another’s pleasure. Never would any man give himself to loveless
desire. Mithrandir’s dream would come true in Ithilien. Faramir
would make it so.
Slowly and strongly, he began to push.
His eyes and Anborn’s, locked on one another, registered the
shock and shiver of that first thrust. Like a fist, hard muscle closed
tightly around the head of Faramir’s cock. He paused there for
a moment, reveling in the grip of it. Then he pushed again, every so
slightly, and the firm flesh opened ever so slightly before him. Anborn’s
hands were on his waist, pulling him deeper, and deeper again. From
three feet away he heard the slap of flesh, the rhythmic groan of two
voices – Damrod and Mablung had lost no time in kissing and were
already well into it.
Anborn heard them too.
“Let them hurry,” he whispered. “You and I, my lord
– we’ll take our time. Oh!”
Grinning impishly, Faramir had pulled back an inch or two. Anborn gasped,
laughed, and pulled him slowly back.
So it went – another slow, inifinite inch, another slow, sucking
retreat, then back for another inch. Anborn’s body was a living,
throbbing channel that opened sweetly, gradually, at its own hypnotic
pace. Every second within it was precious, every moment an unimagined
joy.
After what could have been eternity, Faramir felt the hilt of his cock
come to rest against its sheath. Now, rather than pulling back again,
he gently rotated his hips, pressing down into hot flesh and rolling
from side to side.
“Yes. Oh, yes!” Anborn was writhing and crying out, his
fingers raking ribs and chest. Faramir’s cock had found the secret
place inside him.
Damrod was crying out too, and so was Mablung. The slap of hips on
buttocks came quickly now, building toward a crescendo. Faramir and
Anborn turned their heads to watch as Mablung arched and thrust in the
delirium of his climax. He had pinned Damrod’s hands alongside
his head, their fingers interlaced, his face buried in the back of Damrod’s
neck. Moonlight shone in the sweat that covered their bodies.
Still rolling his hips languidly between the legs that cushioned him,
his cock buried to the root, Faramir leaned down again to kiss Anborn’s
throat.
“Sounds like they’ve finished over there,” Anborn
said as loudly as he could. “For us, the best is still ahead.”
“Don’t be so smug, my lad,” the breathless Mablung
advised him, nuzzling Damrod’s ear. “I may have come, but
somebody else hasn’t had his turn yet. We’ve got a surprise
for his lordship.”
“What do you suppose that means?” asked Faramir. Then,
impulsively, he slid his entire hard length straight backward, only
to sheathe it again with a resounding slap of his own. Anborn gave a
shout of surprise and delight, followed by a whole series of shuddering
gasps as Faramir jabbed at him deliciously.
For Faramir had just realized an amazing thing: now that everything
was open and relaxed, he could start to play with the speed and rhythm
of his thrusts. He had already come once, so he felt less of the urgency
that had driven him before. He could go on all night, both for himself
and for the squirming, gasping Anborn.
But what was this? Hands on his shoulders, lips in his hair. It was
Damrod, straddling his backside and pressing a long, hard cock against
his tailbone.
“Mablung sends you this gift, my lord,” the boy purred.
“Damrod’s ramrod is yours if you want it.”
Faramir and Anborn looked at each other in astonishment.
“Can you do that?” gasped Anborn. “Three at once?”
“You can do it,” laughed Mablung, stretching himself out
alongside. “All it takes is hard cocks, sweet backsides and a
lot of lubenas. Hold out your palm, Damrod.”
A moment later, Damrod was massaging oil into Faramir’s still-moving
cleft. It had tightened up again since his earlier go-around, but it
loosened up quickly enough under these new and enthusiastic ministrations.
This may have been Damrod’s first attempt in the area, but he
showed an aptitude that was immediately appreciated.
Faramir couldn’t believe his good fortune. Still thrusting slowly
into Anborn’s heat, he himself would soon be speared as his heedless
brother had never speared him. For though he’d been penetrated
many times before, it had not been like this, when he was oiled, open
and lovingly prepared.
Now here it came! At the first thrust he keened like a bird; at the
second, his head dropped panting onto Anborn’s chest; at the third,
his inmost mystery blazed into life. His own cock and the cock inside
him were as one, connected head to root, and their glory moved through
him like hard lightning.
Mablung was not idle. He had taken hold of Anborn’s cock and
was pumping it in his well-oiled hand. Anborn thrashed like a mad thing,
his head twisting from side to side. His young body couldn’t last
long this way, and neither could Damrod’s. Both were panting rapidly
now, their breath hoarse in their throats, their cries high and desperate.
Their time had come. Faramir thrust hard and fast, pounding the warm
flesh that was ready for all he could give. He felt the gathering eruption
of Anborn’s climax and knew that his own would be close behind,
impelled by the merciless pounding of Damrod. Anborn looked up at him
and managed one last grin before he was launched.
White come spurted. The hot drops fell thickly on Anborn’s oil-streaked
ribs and nipples. His muscles contracted again and again, gripping Faramir’s
cock. Damrod was coming too, and Faramir felt himself suspended between
them, caught up in a wonder of flesh that pierced and embraced him.
Damrod leaned into him, pressing him down, down into Anborn. Faramir
was coming, even as Damrod pumped him full of his own ecstasy and Mablung
teased unending groans from Anborn. Their arms were around him, their
mouths were kissing him, he was wholly enveloped and penetrated by their
bodies, by their joy, by their love.
Captain Faramir had come home.
FINIS
