Sleeping with the Enemy
by Arctapus

Part 1

In a town in California...

It was quiet at the house as he sat in the living room, sipping beer and watching Australian Rules football on ESPN. It had been several days since he had been on the town, several days since he had come to the conclusion that he was who he was and there was no getting around it.

A phone call from his son had resonated with him, making him consider a lot of hard truths. Now that they were separated, now that she was going to live in another town and his son was no longer a part of his daily life, he had taken stock of his situation, laying aside bitterness and considered what he had done wrong with his life.

He was a lineman for the local electrical company, a man with nerves of steel and a solid reputation among his peers. A handsome man, nearly six feet two inches, he had been someone the ladies had looked up to as well. He had been married for several years, raising his son with great attention and affection but inside he had kept something to himself, something that in the end had destroyed his marriage and taken his happiness away.

He shoved it out of his mind, having come to the forgone conclusion that he would never make a good husband. No one was stupid enough to be with him on a full time basis, including his soon-to-be former wife. She had made it clear that there was no reconciling from their split up and he had learned to live with the idea that his son would be growing up fifty-five miles from him in another city.

His house was his own, his wife having money of her own, the second bone of contention between them. He had been working class and she, the daughter of a wealthy man, and so it had been difficult for him to feel manly and independent around the father who was so solicitous of his daughter's creature comforts. She had taken what she had brought into the marriage, including the beloved son that they shared. It was to her great credit that she worked out the most generous custody arrangements possible.

He sighed and rose, walking through the house to the kitchen. Dinner had been takeout, something easy and warm and the rest of the evening would be quiet, spent just getting used to being alone. He put his bottle on the counter, staring at the dishes in the sink and he sighed, wishing more than anything that he could hear his son's voice once more. He would be coming on the weekend, sharing the house with his father through the holidays before going back to school in the city.

The sun was setting and darkness was falling as he stood by the window and stared out. Things had fallen apart quickly, or so it seemed, but if he had been truthful, he would have seen the unravelling sooner. He just didn't want to, preferring to hope it wouldn't happen. His son was his life and now he was gone.

With a sad sigh, he turned and walked back to the living room, turning off the light as he sat down once more. Channel surfing aside, he found an old movie, a Robin Hood-like story with men in tights. Smiling at the strangeness of the men on the screen, all exaggerated posing and blustery bravado, he settled in to watch, the hours ticking by as slowly but surely he fell into sleep.

In another place and time...

"I am not going with you."

The finality in the voice was amusing to her as she stood in the doorway, watching with some detached objectivity her brother fulminate. It had been a day and a half since the proposal had been made and still Éomer had not calmed down.

"Come down to dinner before Uncle gets angry."

Éomer turned, staring at her with furious eyes. " Uncle gets angry? What about me ? You are my sister . You are supposed to be loyal to me , Eowyn, or am I not able to count upon you any further?"

She swallowed her amusement and stepped into the room, pausing before the tall and furious figure of her only truly close blood relative. He looked like their father, she thought, as she put her hand upon his chest. His heart was pounding furiously, like his temper. He stilled, ever in tune with her.

"Éomer...you must come down and sup with us. Uncle is concerned."

"Not concerned enough to propose what I cannot abide. You would have me agree with him?"

"We have no choice," Eowyn replied, sighing softly. "We do not have the luxury of choice, those of us who bear the burden of service. Someday, you might wear the crown of the King. You must learn to put yourself second."

"And you, Eowyn...what do you put before yourself?" he asked, knowing full well that his question was unfair.

She sighed and looked at him with grave eyes. "Everything," she replied quietly.

He gathered her into his arms and they stood together, two people caught in the vice of their people's need.

In another place...

"He's not joking," Faramir replied gravely.

He stared at his brother, at the terrible fury on his face. Boromir was pacing, wearing a rut in the ground as he tried to bear the burden of his rage and distaste. "Father must have taken leave of his senses," he muttered, pausing before his brother, who sat on a chest, watching Boromir fume.

They had been together all afternoon long, Faramir patiently listening as his brother ranted and raved. It was always so, Faramir listening and Boromir working out his passions and plans at the top of his voice. Now they were caught in a dilemma from which there appeared to be no escape and so they sat together talking, walking and cursing, ever Faramir the patient one, supporting where he could.

"Father is mad ," Boromir said angrily, pausing to look at his brother once more. "Tell me he's mad."

Faramir smiled a ghost of a smile, nodding as he rose and walked to his brother. "He's mad."

Boromir smirked, hugging his brother tightly. "What are we to do?"

Faramir sighed and shook his head. "There is naught to do but obey. Unless you want to be banned or bothered or worse."

"Father is mad ," Boromir persisted, rubbing his hands nervously together. He paused and looked at his brother, noting the concern in his eyes. "Faramir, I do not know what this will lead to but I would appreciate it very much if you would reason with him."

"With Father ?" Faramir asked, surprised. "Since when did Father ever take my council? His mind is made up, along with Théoden of Rohan. What can a mere second son of Denethor say to such worthies?"

"How about nay? How about 'this is madness '," Boromir said, sitting heavily on his bed. "How about...I can not imagine what you can say, my brother, but I want to hear you say it again."

"What, Boromir?" Faramir asked, moving to sit on the bed next to his brother. Boromir lay splayed out, arms out flung and defeat written into every line.

"Tell me that Father is mad."

Faramir smiled and complied.

In Rohan at the same time...

He sat at the table, leaning on his elbows, his dark eyes focused on the candles before him. Sitting in their accustomed places, Eowyn, Theodred, Théoden, Gamling, and Hama watched him furtively around the delicate dance of their conversation. They didn't bring it up, the proposal that had been struck and Éomer wasn't conducive to conversation about it or much else.

The food was good as ever and the wine sweet. The men talked together, about anything but Gondor and Eowyn watched her brother sulk with a sense of sad foreboding. They would be going to Gondor in three days, putting into practice what had been only just now decided upon in correspondence.

"For the good of Gondor...for the security of Rohan ..."

These words had echoed in her mind, the carefully formulated diplomatic language of nations conversing and she considered what it meant to the people caught up in the middle of grand design. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. This had been taught to her early on in her life, her parents sacrificing themselves for the good of her country, bringing her to live with the brother of her mother.

Théoden was a good man and a good king as well. He loved his people and always put them first. In the doing of this thing, this inherited burden of responsibility, he had made hard decisions for the good of all. His family, his son and nephew especially, had shouldered their share of the burden, almost never offering an opposing view. They supported and loved him, helping him where they could but this decision had landed hard among them.

Theodred glanced at his cousin, the boy child of his youth, the stalwart companion of his majority. He would be undertaking a terrible and fraught-filled mission for the good of Rohan, a mission that would hold sway over the rest of his life and bind two countries together in a way that no treaty or agreement ever could.

In three days, they would be travelling to Gondor, going into the White City to make a special kind of treaty. They would wear their finest garments, riding the most beautiful horses in their kingdom, making a show for Rohan that would be remembered for years to come. He smiled slightly to himself, unable to feel the depth of his cousin's despair over the situation he had found himself trapped inside.

Theodred had met Boromir before, riding with him in hunts against the enemy, foraging off the land and having great sport at shooting tournaments. He liked the big handsome man, a man of great virility and charisma. For a moment he lingered on the possibility of their joining, Boromir and Éomer, on the thrashing and dominance-seeking magnitude of that moment and the mere thought made him tingle all over with sensation.

Boromir and Éomer had a rendezvous with destiny, a personal joining that would have far-reaching consequences for both nations. It would be a treaty of a different kind and he would have ringside seats at the most unusual negotiations ever attempted between them.

Of course, he considered, it could have been him, the chosen sacrifice for the dignity of their two nations. But it wasn't, his father sparing him even as he chose his strapping nephew to meet the challenge. And challenge it was, this diplomatic venture and he wished he could be a fly on the wall when payment became due.

Smiling to himself, he sipped his wine, well aware that when the fireworks were over, they would all return to their own homes once more. Éomer would come back with them, Boromir would stay in Gondor, suffering reunions only at the instigation of their respective lords. In between they would continue as before perhaps, wenching or not among themselves as ever they did before. They were good companions, friends of lifelong standing and when this was all over, they would return as they ever did to the lives that they lived.

But one thing would be different. One thing would be changed. When the ranks of married men were marshalled in the days ahead, Éomer would be counted among them. What was so amusing to Theodred and to Eowyn, he could tell, was that the "woman" of Éomer's heart and bed and soul would be the tall and wildly masculine son of Denethor, the brave and rowdy Boromir of Gondor.

He blinked and shifted in his chair, the white-hot gaze of Éomer passing over him as he stared around the room. Theodred masked his amusement, forging a placid look on his face. He glanced at Eowyn, herself staring decidedly at her plate as his father droned on about horse racing and the coming crop of foals.

Gondor...

He sat in his room, staring at the fire. Faramir had stepped out, going to request an audience with their father. It was irritating to him that the younger of Denethor's sons had so little access to their father's affections. Faramir was a good and decent man, strong, smart and kind. Definitely, in Boromir's mind, a person worthy of respect.

Yet he got little from their father, the consequences harmful and it rankled Boromir, sparking many short and sharp discussions between Denethor and himself. His father favoured him, choosing him over his younger brother and the reasons for such were not clear. He had taken to his brother, holding him closer than ever because of the sorrow he could see in Faramir over this treatment.

Treatment.

He was the favoured son but he still faced this outrage, the ordeal of binding himself to someone he loathed. Éomer of Rohan was only a mild acquaintance, someone he had met here and there in the course of the hunt. No formal occasions had brought them together so what he knew, he knew on the trail, in the machismo and aggressive world of fighting men.

Éomer was a big man, he recalled, strong and well made, meeting him eye-to-eye when they faced each other. He had broad shoulders and very strong hands, fast of foot as well and very smart. Éomer had lived his life in the saddle, his strength born of service to king and country. As a swordsman and bowman, he was more than capable and few could match him hand-to-hand.

Of course, he could. He was himself the equal to Éomer physically, more than up to the challenge of competition. He, himself was tall and broad of shoulder, a lifetime of riding and fighting tempering him. He was as strong as steel, hard as the land he rode over and as determined as any foe who stood before him.

Éomer was like him in some ways, he conceded, but his arrogance was hard to bear on the few occasions they had met. It was a clashing of wills and of temperaments between them and if he was truly being fair, it was because they were more alike than not. But he wasn't fair and he didn't concede it, so angered and unsettled was he by this change in fortune. It was his doom, he considered, his doom to bear and as he sat before the fire, he mused on his fate.

They were strong-minded, stubborn, determined and hot-headed. They were big and strong and capable and confident. Each was masculine to a fault, both of them dominating personalities and more than willing to step in and do what was needed without asking. Both of them loved their countries, both of them were loyal to their leader, their king, their steward, loyal indeed to a fault. Both of them were willing to die in the service of their people. Nothing about that was unusual in the cultures where they were forged.

What was new, what was hard, what was humorous and what was sad was the new dread they faced. They would be bound to each other, in a perfectly legal fashion, as befitted some men in heroic cultures. They in the end would be spouses and allies. That they hated each other was incidental and wholly irrelevant. That was the part that didn't count at all.

He sighed and sipped his wine, waiting for his brother as he contemplated the unthinkable, sleeping with the enemy. He closed his eyes in despair.

A soft buzzing sound...

He started awake, looking around disoriented and then he remembered where he was. Stretching, he stood up, staring at the television screen and the off-the-air picture that filled it. A buzzing sound hummed softly and he clicked it off, tossing the remote into the chair. Turning, he walked slowly into the bedroom, stripping off his clothes before walking into the bathroom. He paused by the sink, staring at his reflection and the semi-stranger that stared back at him.

He sighed and turned, stepping into the shower, standing under cool water before lathering and rinsing. The rest of his routine passed in silence and when he was towelled off, he turned off the light. Darkness suffused the bedroom, but he knew where he was, so familiar were his surroundings. Slipping on sleeping pants, he slid into the bed, lying back tired against the sheets. They felt good against his skin, the cool linens soothing and by the time he had settled, he was halfway into sleep.

"Boromir."

The name flitted across his mind, a vision of blond hair and a firm gaze, the sound of horses and a river. The sounds and smells seemed real and he was jolted from his dream state, moving restlessly in the bed before falling once more into sleep.

The lights flickered as he hurried down the corridor, rushing to Boromir's chamber. They had come and he had not shown himself, making a difficult greeting more so. Turning the corner, he came to the door he sought and paused, knocking briskly. He didn't hear any sound and so he opened the door and stepped inside, glancing around the gloomy room quickly.

"Boromir."

Dark eyes met his, eyes filled with anger and emotion. "Faramir. The protocol is to be asked in."

"The protocol is to greet guests when they arrive."

"Guests," Boromir sighed, sipping his wine once more. "Guests. Is that what we call them now?"

"We will soon call them kin," Faramir replied quietly, staring at his brother with concern. "You have to come. You have to, Boromir."

"I have to come," Boromir replied, setting his glass down. He turned, facing his younger brother. "You do not have to tell me my duty, Faramir. Name the day when I have shirked it."

"You never have," Faramir replied, moving to stand before him. "You won't now, will you?"

"Do I have a choice?" Boromir asked, shaking his head.

"No," Faramir replied, sighing. "You do not, I am afraid."

Boromir stared at him, at the sadness in his brother's face. Reaching out, he caressed his cheek. "Afraid...I am not that."

Faramir smiled slightly. "You never have been, have you?"

"Not so that anyone would notice," Boromir said with a smile. He reached out and hugged Faramir, squeezing him tightly. Gathering his emotions together, he shrugged. "Let us go. Our guests are waiting."

Together they turned and with unity of purpose, they left the room and walked through the corridors, passing richly dressed courtiers all turned out for the festivities. Entering the Great Hall, they walked toward the dignitaries, sitting and standing around a great fireplace.

Denethor watched them come, hiding his irritation at his older son, the conversation with his younger echoing through his mind. It was for the best, the heir binding himself to the prince of Rohan. The countries long had ties but the future could not be foretold. They would make a tie between them, something that would last longer than his own lifetime and bind the two peoples together forever.

He had no illusions about his son, Boromir. He loved him dearly, depending upon him in ways he never considered. He was keenly aware that Boromir hadn't wed and with all likelihood, wouldn't in the near future. He had no idea why, perhaps his duty was stronger than his need to hold someone but he was sure that this wouldn't slow him down in his life.

Bonding to a man was common among warriors and he had no reservations about his decision for his son. He was irritated as he stood watching but he hid it well. By the time the two men reached him he was the picture of calm and contentment.

"Finally, you come."

Boromir nodded to his father, glancing at their guests, making no mention of why he had not been here. The guests watched them, noting the undercurrent of tension that was ever so slight but very much there. Denethor turned, smiling at the visitors, bowing slightly to Théoden, who rose.

"My Lord Théoden," he began, glancing at his son. "May I finally present my son, Boromir."

Boromir stepped forward, offering his hand. Gripping Théoden's arm, he nodded. "Théoden King."

"Boromir," Théoden said, a slight smile forming on his lips. Turning, he glanced at the three youngsters with him, including the tall glowering figure of his sister's only son.

"Éomer," he said simply, nodding to his nephew.

The tall strained youngster stepped slightly forward. They stared at each other, these two who would be bound together, their eyes locking in silent combat as they took the measure of the other. Éomer offered his hand, gripping Boromir's tightly, the two squeezing each others fingers as tightly as they could.

Faramir watched them, his eyes roving from his brother to the strangers and when they finally let go of each other, he felt a deeply held breath released. So far, so good, he considered, relaxing slightly. Good for now, he considered, watching as they turned together, walking toward the dining room

It would be a long and difficult evening, he considered, walking with his brother to the great doors beyond. A long and very difficult evening.

Part 2

"You look tired."

"I am," he replied, yawning. "I haven't been sleeping well lately."

"You've had a tough time," his partner replied, moving tools from the back of the truck to where they could be reached more easily.

He didn't argue, that much was true. He gathered his tool kit and turned toward the street, walking up to the pole that he was going to climb. They were making a repair, fixing a breaker box, the first on a long list of things to do. By the time they were finished, it would be the end of the day and he would once more be on his own.

The sun was shining, warm on his face as he climbed to the router box that awaited his inspection. He sighed with pleasure, the sight of horses nearby a bonus to the usually bleak city surroundings that accompanied his work day. A big white stallion stood in a field nearby, eyeing him with interest and he paused, looking at its beautiful form. It was soothing to him, to watch the great stallion and he began his work feeling refreshed and relaxed.

He had gone to dinner at a local diner, sitting by himself as he ate. The sun had set and he was alone again, facing another evening without diversion. Sighing, he rose and paid his bill and walked to the street, looking at the sky overhead. It was filled with stars, brilliant against the velvety blackness. Somehow he felt better looking upward at them. Thoughts flitted through his mind, visions of other times and he shook his head, a sense of loss suffusing him.

Turning, he walked to his truck and drove onto the main road that split the town in two. He took the off ramp to the interstate and drove for eighteen miles, coming to the college town that served the entire area. The college was an interesting place, filled with activities and people that he would never bump into otherwise. Parking near the student union, he got out and began to walk, strolling around the campus and down the road to the town.

Small coffee shops bustled with patrons, couples walking along the street nodding as they passed him by. He continued on, passing businesses and homes, some open and not as he wandered along. A movie theatre advertised an action movie but he didn't stop in, moving farther along until he reached the town square. He stood in the light of a street lamp, watching as a group of youngsters stood nearby laughing. He watched them, feeling suddenly lonely and he wished he was in his house, his son for company. But it wasn't to be and so he stood watching them, considering what he was doing.

A shop door opened and two women walked out, hand-in-hand. They stood in the shadow of the building's eaves, talking softly and then they kissed each other before turning to walk away. He watched them, slightly uncomfortable and stepped across the street, moving to stare in the window. Inside, there were many couples but not the type he expected. Men sat with men and women with women, clear signs of unapologetic intimacy on display.

At least he felt it was on display, the openness that he saw and the discomfort that he felt was extreme. He shifted his feet, undecided whether to leave and as he did, the door opened and a tall figure stepped out, smiling at him as he paused by the curb.

He smiled back, nodding, suddenly embarrassed to be seen peeking and turning, he began to walk away toward the college. The figure watched him go and then cleared his throat, smiling as he paused and turned back to stare.

"Hi," he said again, watching the big stranger shift uncomfortably.

He nodded, suddenly shy for some reason and stood uncertainly as the other came up to him. He held out his hand, a smile on his face. "I'm Tom."

He nodded and cleared his own throat, suddenly awkward. "I'm...I'm Sam."

Tom smiled and nodded. "I saw you through the window and I was wondering if you'd like a drink?"

Sam stared at him, shifting uneasily. "A drink?"

"Or coffee."

The warm smile of the stranger was comforting to Sam and so he nodded, following Tom into the cafe. The aroma of coffee and garlic greeted him and he glanced around, profoundly uneasy at being a part of the scene. He sat and settled, his eyes focused on the candle that was the illumination for the table where they sat. A youngster walked over and took their order, coffee and danish, and then walked away.

Tom watched Sam, quietly amused by his discomfort. "First time here?"

"Does it show that bad?"

Tom grinned. "Yes," he replied with a chuckle, nodding to the waitress as she gave them their order. She left and they were alone, sitting together quietly.

Sam stirred his coffee, adding sugar and cream, ignoring a couple of men sitting beside them, holding hands and talking quietly nearly nose-to-nose. They began to eat, exchanging pleasantries and by the time they were finished, they were relatively comfortable together.

Rising, they walked to the door, Tom taking care of the bill. Exiting, Sam felt the tension receding as the cool night air soothed him. Tom watched him, more than aware of the turmoil and confusion in the tall man's mind.

"Where are you headed?" he asked, smiling as Sam turned, uncertainty on his face.

"I was just...I was heading for home. I'm working tomorrow."

Tom nodded, stepping to stand beside him on the curb. "All right. How about dinner then?"

Sam looked at him and then nodded, smiling slightly. "Sure."

"Good. How about meeting me here tomorrow night about seven. We can go some place for dinner."

Sam nodded, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets. "All right."

"Good," Tom said, holding out his hand. Sam took it, giving him a firm grip. Then, with a nod, he turned and walked down the street, heading back to his truck about a mile up the road.

Tom watched him go, considering the awkward figure receding into the darkness. Smiling, he turned and walked down the square, heading for his own car and home.

Later that same night...

He walked into his house, tossing his keys on the counter. He entered the bathroom and went through his routine, moving to his bed and sleep. Settling in, he pushed his excitement and turmoil away, falling into a light sleep at last.

In the tower of the great city...

He stood on the balcony, the uncomfortable dinner finally over. They had gathered in the room behind him, talking together in the quiet evening. The city sparkled below him, shimmering in the darkness, the familiar landscape of his home comforting. He loved the great city, the ancient homeland of their people and it was a prideful thing to him to be heir to its great traditions.

Éomer stood by the fire, watching the big man as he stood alone. It had been difficult, more than he could have imagined, keeping his emotional disarray in check. He turned, catching Faramir's eye, glancing away as he turned. He stood stiffly, uncomfortable and fuming, as the evening wound onward, drawing him unwilling in its wake.

Faramir listened with half an ear, considering the man that his father had chosen for Boromir. He was as big as his brother, as stern and hardened as Boromir and probably as aggressive and forceful as well. It didn't look good to him, this pairing of equals and so he rose and stepped to the hearth, smiling slightly at Éomer.

"Why don't we go out onto the balcony. You can see the whole sweep of the Pelennor at night in a way that is unequalled any other time."

Éomer shifted, his eyes flickering between Faramir and the tall man standing on the balcony and then nodded, following him through the quietly talking group out of the room. Denethor watched them, sighing as they passed and he turned, catching Théoden's chuckle as he did.

"This is going to be an interesting event," Théoden said, shaking his head. "I am very pleased that Gondor and Rohan are as tough as the bones of the mountains that surround us. The tussle of this arrangement could shatter stone."

Denethor smiled, a genuine thing and nodded in agreement. "If we survive the coming days, there will be nothing that can pull us asunder."

The night air was refreshing as Éomer stepped onto the balcony, trailing Faramir reluctantly. He paused by the balcony, Faramir between them and sighed softly, wishing himself home. The sloping fields before them were dotted by flickering lights, indications of the locations of towns and villages. Stars were brilliant, the sky nearly creamy with them, shedding their light in conjunction with a waning moon.

"The view is beautiful," Faramir offered, his gaze moving from one side to the other. Each man stared straight ahead, neither looking at the other and Faramir sighed, shaking his own. "You are both ridiculous. Nothing can be served from your sulking but trouble. The matter is done and you must abide by it. So what say you?"

"What say me?" Boromir said, turning to face Éomer at last. Faramir stepped slightly back, the two meeting eye-to-eye and watched, holding his breathe as he did. "What say me to being wed to someone for whom I hold little friendship. What say me to giving my freedom to someone for whom I will never be friends."

"You? You say this to me ? I, who have never given you offence, I, who have not caused you alarm of any kind must endure such statements from the likes of you ?" He moved closer, squeezing Faramir slightly backwards. "I have lived in my own country for the whole of my life, happy and content in the manner in which I conduct myself. I am not the citified, prissy and wholly arrogant sort who would mask my disdain behind false memories."

Boromir moved closer, his fists clenched. "False memories," he hissed, his anger vivid. "You forget that it is I who am the wounded one, the one for whom you gave the most offence. Your memory of woe is laughable in the extreme. I would say to you, horse master, that you are the one gaining from this arrangement, not me. I would say that to your face."

Faramir sighed and stepped closer, his brother's arm reaching out and moving him back. Boromir stepped closer, protecting Faramir with his own body as Éomer's face darkened with anger.

"You believe that I have much to gain from becoming wed to one who is no more a woodsman than a stripling girl? Wedding my only life away to someone who has no sense of what to do in the wilderness is somehow a good thing ? You feel that cities are the mark of a man but for those of us who know of manliness more clearly, your big-footed amblings in the wilderness are laughable. You can no more survive in my world than I can tolerate the falseness of yours. I would say to you, city boy , that you would gain greatly from an infusion of Rohirrim blood. It is not as if you hold a crown of your own in any future that I can see."

At that point Boromir lunged, caught by Faramir as he did. Éomer stood, glaring at Boromir, his fists clenched and his eyes dark with fury. Faramir pushed Boromir, quelling his charge and stood between them as they glared at each other.

"Enough," he said, hissing, hoping that no one had noticed and then he turned and slapped Éomer on the arm. Turning back to his brother, he slapped him too, drawing their attention once more. "Some place else, some place more quiet," he said, tugging on his brother's arm. Reluctantly and slowly, they followed him as he walked off, skimming down stairs until they came to a small promontory. A bench ran along the stone wall, the view as spectacular as the other and when they got there, Faramir stood hands on hips, staring at them both with disgust.

"What do you two propose to do? Fight and kill each other? Argue and make things worse?"

"What can be more terrible than to marry someone like him?" Boromir said, pacing in a tight circle near the edge of the balcony.

"You are no bargain," Éomer sputtered, balling his fists as he watched Boromir pace.

" Neither of you are," Faramir said, shaking his head.

Boromir paused, staring hard at his brother. "Whose side are you on?"

"I don't know. I'm struggling to bare this as best I can. What are you going to do? Your uncle and my father have decreed this into being. Either you accept it or you do not. If you don't, then you must tell them and accept the consequences."

"The consequences cannot be as bad as this possibility," Boromir hissed, glaring at Éomer darkly.

"Do you think so?" Faramir asked. He looked at Éomer. "What would your uncle say if you refused?"

"He would...be furious," Éomer said, sighing. "The bans have been made and the arrangements laid in. It would be the height of disrespect and shame for Rohan if I did not do this horrible thing."

It was silent a moment. Faramir stared at his brother. "Well?"

"There is never any gainsaying when Father makes up his mind."

Faramir nodded. "You both know that this is the price of wearing the crown."

"As if that will ever be your fate," Éomer hissed.

"You are a fine one to talk to me of crowns," Boromir replied, smirking. "Your cousin looks in fine health to me."

"You two should listen to yourself. I am struggling to remember that you are as old as you are," Faramir said, turning his back on them.

"You do not have to do this painful thing. It is easy for you to judge, Faramir, when you can walk away," Boromir chided, his voice peevish.

Faramir stood a moment and then turned, eyeing his brother carefully. "Father has made a pact that a son of his household shall marry a son of Théoden's. What if one does?"

Boromir stared at him perplexed. "One is , or have you not been paying attention?"

"But which one?" Faramir asked, shrugging.

It was silent a moment and then Boromir shifted, staring uneasily at his brother. "Speak your mind fully," he said, his voice soft with suspicion.

"If a son of Gondor must wed a son of Rohan, I offer myself in your place."

Boromir stared at him and then at the surprised face of Éomer. "You cannot be serious."

"I am."

"Faramir ..."

"I would be wed and you would be free," Faramir offered. "You can go back to Rohan once the marriage was consummated and never again would you have to come here. If I am needed in Rohan, I can come and you, here. That makes the deal and that makes the peace."

Boromir shifted uncertainly, his face a cavalcade of dark emotions. "Father would never agree."

"If the marriage cannot be made between the two of you, then make it with me."

Éomer bit his lip, uncertainty in his demeanour. He moved to the bench and sat upon it. Staring at Faramir, his mind in turmoil, he offered no indication that he approved or not of the changes in arrangements. Boromir stared at Faramir, shifting closer for a moment and then he halted, taking Faramir's shoulders into his hands.

"Why?" he asked, his eyes searching Faramir's face for answers as he stood, stunned by the offer before him.

"Because you are my brother and I love you," Faramir said simply and quietly. "For better or no, Boromir."

Boromir let him go and turned, walking to the railing, staring out into the night for a moment or two. Turning, he looked at Éomer, unsure of himself and what he might say. He looked at Faramir, at the brother he loved standing quietly, willing to sacrifice himself for his sake. He shook his head, pausing for a moment, gathering his thoughts to himself.

"It will never be allowed, by Father or by me, Faramir. But I love you for offering all the same."

"I am going to put the proposition forward, offering myself to Théoden," Faramir said, turning and hurrying up the steps.

Boromir watched him go, surprised for a moment and then after glancing at an equally roused Éomer, hurried after him. By the time they reached the sitting room, Faramir was already concluding his offer to his father and the King of Rohan. They both sat silently, glancing at the two men as they came through the door, Gamling, Hama and Eowyn quietly watching as well. Faramir turned, nodding to the two men as he waited for the word from the King and the Steward. Théoden glanced at Denethor, shrugging slightly.

"This is a most interesting turn of events, my friend," he said, smiling slightly at Denethor.

The Steward was regarding his younger son with interest, considering his words carefully. "Faramir has made a most interesting proposition, offering to exchange himself for you, Boromir. What say you to his most generous offer?"

Boromir glanced at Faramir and then Éomer, nearly sputtering with exasperation as he collected his thoughts. "This is impossible."

"And why is that so? Éomer," Théoden asked, catching the attention of his nephew. "Do you find the prospect of binding with Faramir daunting as well?"

Éomer swallowed and glanced at Faramir, the latter standing silently, his expression hard to gauge. "No, my Lord," Éomer finally managed, shifting uneasily from side to side. "I ... that is, no."

"And you, Boromir?" Denethor asked. "What say you to giving up marital bliss with the nephew of the King?"

"I...I would like to say ..." Boromir stilled, frustrated beyond measure, staring from his brother to his father and back again. "Faramir, you cannot do this."

"Why?" Faramir asked, sighing deeply. "This is to be had, because it was willed thus. You cannot bend yourself to the will of your father, this I can see. I give myself in your place, Boromir, because of my love and respect for you and for the esteem that I hold the Kingdom of Rohan."

It was silent a moment as they digested that information and then Denethor rose and turned to Théoden. "Well, that appears to be resolved," he said quite simply. "Would you care to join me in my study for wine? I believe we can formalize this new arrangement together."

Théoden rose and nodded to his partner, walking together with Denethor until they cleared the room. It was silent a moment and then as one, they all turned to Faramir, fixing him with varying expressions of astonishment.

Faramir sighed and turned to the table, pouring a glass of wine for himself. He turned and faced them, holding out his glass, gazing from face to face as he did.

"Cheers."

Part 3

He drained the glass in one gulp, watching as the others stepped forward, filling their own as well. For a moment there was only drinking and then Boromir set his glass down, facing his brother with a frown.

"You didn't have to do that," he said angrily. "You didn't have to sacrifice yourself."

" Thank you very much ," Éomer said, glowering at the tall heir to the Stewardship of the city. "You act like being with me is the end of the world."

"It might be for all I know," Boromir growled.

Faramir stepped between them, facing his brother. "No more fighting."

Boromir paused, stepping back. "Faramir..."

"Please," Faramir pleaded, placing his hands on Boromir's shoulders. "No more. It's useless, this bickering and fighting. What is done is done. You have to get used to it."

"And you, Faramir," Boromir asked. "Will you get used to it?"

Faramir shrugged. "You and I and all of us, we don't count in the end. We do what we have to, that's all."

Éomer stared at Faramir, at the quiet determination on his face. He turned and walked away, standing by the fireplace. "They have made up their minds. You have thrown the scheme for a moment, but they are bound and determined to make this happen."

"Then if it must, it must," Boromir said, resignedly. "It's not like you have to live in Edoras. You will never have to be together again after—"

He paused, manifestly uncomfortable with continuing. Faramir refilled his glass, turning and holding it up. "Whatever I must do, I will."

Theodred reached out and clicked his glass. "I for one will be happy to welcome another adult into the family."

Eowyn grinned, clicking her glass against Faramir's. "As will I."

Éomer felt the blood rising in his cheeks and turned, facing them all. "It is not a sure thing."

"You know it is," Theodred replied. "They both will take what they can manage. If not Boromir, then Faramir. Honour demands it."

Honour," Boromir sputtered. "What honour is there when you give up your own comfort and future hopes for me?"

"Enough," Faramir replied softly.

Boromir looked at him, anguish in his eyes. "In the morrow, you will be wed and I am sorry, Faramir. I did not wish for this to transpire. It was my doom, not yours."

Éomer winced, glaring at Boromir. "You act like your brother is going to his death."

Boromir bit back his retort, turning and staring at Faramir. "You are a fool, my beloved brother, but I love you. I will never cease in my life to make this right between us."

Faramir sighed, shaking his head. "There is nothing to barter."

"Perhaps," Boromir said. "I owe you."

The door opened and Gamling returned, pausing before them for a moment. "The King requires you, Prince Theodred, to sign as witness for the new marriage bans."

Theodred nodded, setting down his glass and with a grin, walked from the room with Gamling. Boromir watched them, then the door opened again, a household servant peeking in. "My Lord Boromir, your father requires you at the signing of some document and bids you post haste to come thither."

Boromir blanched, turning to his brother, intense misery on his face. Faramir squeezed his arm and nodded, watching as Boromir reluctantly walked from the room. Eowyn followed, silent and thoughtful, leaving Faramir and Éomer alone. They stared at the door and then turned, facing each other, both awkward for a moment.

"You must love your brother," Éomer said, discomfort suffusing every fibre of his being.

"I love him more than I can say," Faramir said, turning and placing his glass on the table. He looked at Éomer, considering their predicament. "Sit and talk to me. We have things we must consider."

For a moment he stood silently and then Éomer turned, walking to the chairs by the fireplace. They sat side-by-side, staring into the fire and then Éomer leaned back, suddenly very weary.

"I am sorry for your misfortune," he said, quietly. "It was not my intent to cause you woe."

"Nor was it mine to make this sacrifice but I know my brother. It would do little good for what is trying to be achieved if the ones chosen for unity showed so little potential to achieve that together."

"It is not that I do not have great respect for Gondor and the House of the Steward. It is just that ..."

"What?" Faramir asked, curious and yet not, afraid almost of what he might hear.

"Your brother and I, we would not be good together, so little in common do we share."

"You are most alike to me," Faramir replied, shaking his head in disagreement. "You are two peas in a pod, both dominating and dominant. I would think you would have greater chance for affection because this is so."

"I do not see it," Éomer insisted stubbornly.

"No, I am sure you do not," Faramir replied, chuckling in spite of himself. "All it would take is a consummation and then you could leave, going about your lives as freemen once more. It is not like closeness is wanted or even needed, so clear have you made your positions to be."

"Consummation," Éomer sighed. "It would be like coupling with a bulldog, to lie with your brother." He glanced over quickly. "No offence intended."

Faramir smiled. "No more is taken than can not be shrugged off. If you and I are to be bound together, then he is your family. It would be bad form to harp upon the blood of your blood."

Éomer smiled slightly. "You are a remarkable person."

"There are those who would disagree," Faramir replied, the faint echoes of sorrow in his voice.

Éomer glanced at him, noting his profile and the sadness reflected therein. He reached out and took Faramir's hand, squeezing it gently. "I would never hurt you," he said, surprising even himself by the statement.

Faramir nodded, sighing softly. "And I, you, Éomer."

They sat together quietly for a moment and then Éomer rose, staring down at Faramir, towering over him as he sat. He gathered his dignity, assuming his normal posture. "I have not really seen the city from the parapets. I would hope that you might show me your country."

Faramir smiled slightly, rising. "Follow me," he said, walking to the doorway and out onto the balcony beyond.

For the rest of the night, they would talk together, enjoying the beauty of the city below. Boromir, filled with turmoil, would follow them as they walked, watching over his brother from the shadows.

Part 4

It was dark when he arrived at the corner, waiting nervously for the arrival of the stranger from the night before. It was nuts, he considered, coming here this evening. He had been long in choosing his apparel and in getting ready to come. Jeans and a blue shirt, boots and light jacket, he was handsome and groomed as he stood in the light. Around him, moving through their own dramas, people came and went, attending the plays at the theatre nearby.

Unnoticed by a building, Tom watched him waiting, more than pleased with the handsome stranger he had stumbled upon. Not given to cruising, there was something about this tall man that made him take a chance. Stepping out, he walked down the sidewalk, greeting Sam as he turned and spotted him.

"Hi," he said, gripping Sam's hand.

Sam felt the heat in his cheeks as he returned the shake. "Hi."

"Waited long?"

"No," Sam said, shifting his feet nervously.

"Good," he said, smiling. "I have reservations at Gino's, unless you want to go some place else."

"No, no. Italian is nice," Sam replied, stepping out with Tom as he turned and they walked up the street.

It was quiet a moment and then Tom smiled, glancing at the intense man beside him. "How long have you been out?"

"What makes you think I am?"

"Oh, you remind me of me a few years ago."

Sam winced, shaking his head. "I don't know what I am or what I feel. I just know something needs taking care of, that's all."

"Nice way to put it," Tom said, chuckling. "I know the confusion myself very well."

They entered a restaurant filled with college kids and sat down, ordering food and wine. Conversation was easier as the night went on and by the time they left, the two men were relaxed together. They walked to the park, the one by the theatre, the centre piece of the small town that was so famous for its plays. The path wound up, into thickets of trees and past ponds, until they came to a grassy knoll where a band shell sat empty.

Pausing, turning, Tom smiled at Sam, noting his watchful eyes and his shaking hands. He took them into his own, holding them still as he raised them and kissed them, sighing with pleasure. Sam felt a tremor rush through him, a deeply unsettled feeling and he stood as still as a statue as Tom stepped forward. Soft lips touched his, the lips of a man and he felt himself melting as they pressed against his own.

Tom broke the kiss, stepping back to watch his partner and the changing array of emotions that played across his face. Sam blinked and looked at Tom, licking his lips tensely.

"Well?" Tom asked, smiling broadly. "Are you scandalized?"

Tom shook his head, smiling slightly. "No." He swallowed hard and moved forward once more, his dark eyes filled with emotion as he gathered his courage. "It was good," he whispered. "More than good."

Tom smiled and stepped forward, kissing him again. He lingered on Sam's lips, putting passion into his delivery and when he stepped back, Sam's eyes were closed, a look of deep appreciation on his face. He sighed and turned, rubbing his face with his hands.

"I guess its true then," he whispered softly.

"You doubted it?" Tom asked, watching as he turned slowly.

"I hoped it wasn't so," Sam replied with a sigh. "Life would be easier. I would still be married."

"Not necessarily," Tom said quietly. "People get married and divorced for all kinds of reasons. I imagine statistically marrying a gay spouse is very small."

"It's one hundred percent for me and Lily," Sam replied sadly. "What now?" he asked, gazing at Tom uncertainly.

"I don't know," Tom said, moving closer. He rested his hands on Sam's shoulders, smiling as he kissed him lightly on the lips. "I know what I want, but I'm not sure you're ready and I don't want your first time to be something you regret."

Sam smiled, looking up at the stars. "How about a walk around the park and a beer?"

Tom chuckled and nodded. "Sure. If you're buying."

Sam smiled. "I guess I can do that. Unless, of course, it violates some rule that I don't know yet."

"Not that I can see," Tom said, turning and walking down the trail, Sam by his side. "I'll loan you my handbook."

Tom smiled and nodded. "Thanks," he said softly.

Late that night...

He drove into his garage, entering the darkened house, tossing his keys on the counter. He was filled with dinner, beer and desire, the evening ending with passionate kisses in the shadows by the car park. He had actually relaxed, giving as well as getting and the feel of a man's hands on his body had been incredible. Nothing he had shared with his wife or any other girl he had ever been with could match it and he knew it was all true.

A shower was needed, his throbbing need relentless and by the time he had towelled off, he had taken care of that problem. Sitting on the bed, faint images of other places tugging at his consciousness, he made up his mind that the next time they were together, he would go to bed with Tom. Lying back, rubbing his chest with his hands, he pushed back his neediness.

"You are pathetic, Sam," he whispered, rising and sliding into bed. He lay back wearily, the taste of Tom's lips still fresh upon his own and closed his eyes to sleep.

The City...

It was barely dawn when he came into the city, wearing a cloak and different than usual clothing, hiding his identity. The nuptials were going to be taking place that afternoon and he had little time left in which to make sure they failed. An alliance of this kind, between Rohan and Gondor, would be the end of his influence and he couldn't have that.

He was prepared to make sure that one of the two disappeared before the binding, allowing the current situation to remain status quo. His men had come before him, making their way into the city, seeking information even as they made arrangements. He was to meet one of them now, to finalize the situation and make sure that they were all on the same page together.

He paused by the paddock, the municipal holding area for horses that were being left for an hour or two. A tall man wearing black saw him and came toward him, turning and staring into the corral filled with horses. He came closer, pausing near to him, close enough to talk, but not near enough to be connected.

"We have made our plans but there has been a change."

"What change?" he asked, startled by the news.

"The royal binding will happen but not with Boromir. The younger son has been chosen instead."

"Why?" he asked, his brain working furiously.

"There is no word why, just that it is so. Faramir is the one who will wed Éomer," he said, watching as the wheels turned in his master's mind. It was silent a moment and then Grima turned, glancing at the big man as he considered their options.

"The plan is the same. Only the target is different. The ship? It is ready?"

He nodded agreement.

Grima smiled, a not so pretty effect and then glanced at the horses, considering the changes. "This may work better. That Boromir is a hot head or so I have heard. He would not be well disposed to Rohan at the loss of his brother. I am told they are very close and affectionate together."

"They are," the big man said, nodding.

"Very well. There is no time to waste, so make it all happen," Grima said, pausing. "Do not fail or we will all die."

The man nodded and turned, walking away, melting into the crowd that had gathered for the festivities. Grima watched him go and then drew up his hood, a smile on his face as he considered the coming hours. With a lighter step, he turned and walked upward, moving to the upper reaches of the great tiered city. He disappeared into the crowd, blending in with the multitude as his plan began to form in the band he had dispatched.

In the King's House...

Faramir stood in front of his mirror, arrayed in his finery, a beautiful sight in green and crimson. He was tall and slim, his reddish-blond hair combed and his beard trimmed, framing his handsome face and his pale eyes. He wore no weapon, none being needed and as he stood by the mirror, he heard a knock on the door.

"Enter," he said, turning and walking to the bed, sitting as he pulled on his boots.

A tall man entered and then another, both bowing slightly as they paused before him. Faramir stared at them, at the two strangers before him, rising to speak as he did. "Yes?" he asked, a slight frown forming on his brow.

"Lord Éomer sent us, my lord. He wishes to speak to you in private."

The two men wore the livery of the King of Rohan, the green cloaks of the Rohirrim and the glittering helms as well. They were no one he had seen before but there were many Rohirrim in the city and the house and so he nodded, turning and reaching for his knife. As he did, he felt a sharp pain in his side, the point of a dagger making him pause.

"You won't need that, my lord," the figure said, his cold eyes glittering as he spoke.

Faramir froze, straightening slowly and turned to face them, two men with knives in hand. One of them covered his with his cloak, the shape of it still visible in its folds. The other raised his, putting it to Faramir's throat, moving closer as he did.

"You will come with us now. You will make no attempt to flee or to alert anyone that you are in distress. If you do, we will kill you before they kill us. Understood?"

Faramir nodded, turning with the men as they moved to his balcony and peered outside. One of them turned to him, putting the knife to his throat as the other found a cloak and tossed it to him.

"Put on the cloak and pull up the hood. One of us will be on each side of you. Keep your head down and don't try anything foolish. We're leaving the city and if you're smart, you'll play along. If you aren't, don't believe for a second we won't kill you."

Faramir shrugged on his cloak, pulling the hood around his face and began the journey from his house to the streets below. With one man on each side and a sharp blade pressed to his side, he walked through the jostling crowds, ever alert for the chance to make a break. They didn't give him one, no one taking more than passing interest in three men walking together, two of them in the livery of the Rohirrim of Rohan.

They entered the civic corral, mounting horses that they had left there, one of them fastening Faramir's hands together and tying them to the pommel of his saddle. They led his horse, riding on either side of him and out of the city they went. Moving against the tide of travellers making for the city, they headed for the river and the docks that would take them to their ship.

It would be only a matter of time before they were safely on board, Faramir stowed below decks, bound hand and foot. In the city, the festivities quickened, people gathering for the binding and by the time the family realized Faramir was gone, the ship that bore him away would be sailing down the river, moving away from Gondor as fast as the wind could bear them.

In the King's House...

"What do you mean you cannot find him?" Denethor thundered. "Where is my son?"

The room was filled with people, guards, family, Rohirrim and guests. Boromir had searched the house from stem to stern, finding nothing that would tell where Faramir had gone. But gone he was and he stood uneasy, watching as Éomer paced in circles.

"This is ridiculous," Theodred said, shaking his head. "He would be here, this I am sure. He was dedicated to this idea, giving his brother relief from his burden and he wouldn't be missing unless something had happened, this I believe."

"What could have happened?" Éomer asked, glancing around the room, his eyes dark and forbidding.

"I want the city searched," Denethor said. "I want everyone accounted for from the city to the docks. I want Faramir found."

The room emptied, the King and the Steward standing together. Théoden turned, staring at Denethor. "You sound like you fear something has been done here to prevent this from happening."

"What else could it be? My son may be many things but this he would not have done. Something is not right and I mean to find out."

Théoden considered Denethor's remarks. "Who would benefit if this binding didn't happen? After all, it would be in the best interests of our people to be closer this way."

"There are many in the east but this has a homely feeling. Who in your household might benefit from such a happening?"

Théoden quelled his offence for a moment and then turned, staring at the balcony beyond. The city was filled with people and noises, many distractions and many who would use such a backdrop for their own means. If it were indeed someone from Rohan who might not want this alliance, there would be only one name for them.

"Grima Wormtongue," he said, turning to Denethor. "Find him and we'll know the truth."

Denethor stared at Théoden for a moment and then nodded, walking to the door beyond. Opening it, he called for a guard, a captain of his household stepping inside. Turning to Théoden, he nodded to him, watching as the King stepped forward.

"There is a man in this city, a visitor from far away. He is greasy and evil, a man of pale complexion. He is a conjurer of mischief by the name of Grima Wormtongue. Find him and bring him here. Search dark corners and places where fell things gather. You will find him there. Bring him to me directly."

The guard nodded and glanced at Denethor, turning and leaving with haste. Théoden watched him go and then turned, walking to the balcony, staring down at the masses that thronged on unaware. As he stood on the balcony, a ship sailed down the river, a faint sight from the vantage he held. In its hold, tied up and helpless, Faramir of Gondor lay.

Early morning...

He shifted in his sleep, turning over, the images in his mind rousing him subliminally. Settling once more, content within the comfort of his bed, he feel into dream state once more.

In the hold...

He lay on a pile of robes, rugs that were destined for some great lord's hall. Bound hand and foot, a gag in his mouth, Faramir struggled against his bonds. A painful gash in his side echoed his one attempt to break free as they walked along the docks on the way to this ship. They had poked him hard, breaking the skin and he had been dragged onto the ship and down into the hold. A well placed fist and a couple of kicks had been insult to injury as he lay helpless in the darkness of the smelly hold.

They had left him alone, shutting out the light, the sound of rats scurrying in the darkness his only companion. He had no idea where they were going, no idea when he would be killed and thrown overboard but he worked as he could, tearing at his bonds, hoping against hope that he could at last get free.

On the road to the river...

They rode together, passing travellers city bound, as they hurried to the river and the docks nearby. It was a hard gallop by the time they reached there, jumping from their mounts as they hurried forward. Hard words were exchanged as they went from ship to ship, demanding information as they collared sailors. The empty berth of the ship that had sailed mocked them as they stood before it.

"They done gone already."

Boromir turned, staring at an old man, toothless and aged, mending nets.

"Tell me everything," he said, stepping forward, pausing before the old man who stared up at him unfazed.

"They done gone," he repeated. "They shoved off, sailing away downriver. They be heading west, going with the breeze and not more than an hour or so they did."

"Who left? Describe them to me."

Éomer stood with Boromir, his hard eyes and imposing bulk impressive to all around them. A small crowd gathered, sailors and children, all of them watching.

"They was three," he said, squinting in memory. "Two men wearing cloaks like yours." He pointed at Éomer and the big man shifted uneasily, glancing at Boromir sharply. "They had another with them, someone unwilling if you get my meanin'. He was wearing a cloak like yours," he said, pointing at Boromir. "It was good clothing, nice and expensive, like yours."

"I saw him," a small boy said, piping up from the crowd.

Boromir turned to him, his gaze frantic. "Tell me what you saw," he asked sharply.

The boy flinched and glanced at a man, obviously his father, who nodded to him.

"He was walking between them, the man with the Gondor cloak. He was as prisoner, like," the boy said. "They took him on the boat but he didn't want to go. They made him go and they took him below deck, shoving him rough like."

"Then they sailed, moving away with the wind," the old man said, watching as they turned.

Boromir glanced around and then moved to a fast ship, grabbing a sailor by the arm. "Is this your boat?"

"Yes," he said, nodding as Éomer and three others—two of Gondor and one of Rohan— joining them in a crowd.

"Sail now. Take us down river. We have to follow that them," Boromir said.

The man nodded and hurried to comply as the party boarded, standing on deck. They pushed off, tugging aboard ropes and the anchor. Struggling to hurry, Boromir and Éomer helped with the work. They moved from the docks and out onto the river, making to put up sails as the ship picked up speed. By the time they were set, the ship was sailing swiftly and was soon out of sight from the crowd on the dock.

Part 5

They stood side-by-side, staring up the river, the breeze cool against their faces. The sun beat down overhead, the day stretching out as they stood tensely, hands resting on the hilts of their swords. Éomer glanced sideways, noting the fear on Boromir's face. Shame pulsed through him, shame and worry, and a fear that they would not be able to undo what their anger had set in motion.

"I am sorry," he said simply, an admission hard made.

Boromir glanced at him, surprised. "What for?" he asked, staring at Éomer, his profile made more noble by the helm and white horse tail.

"For putting Faramir into such a danger by our mutual pig-headedness."

It was silent a moment and then Boromir sighed. "As am I."

Éomer turned, leaning against the side of the ship, the spray of water like dew on his face. They were travelling at great speed, moving swiftly and hope was high that they would find the one they sought.

"You love him, your brother," Éomer said. "That is rare sometimes in families such as ours."

"My brother is a good man," Boromir said, glancing at Éomer. He stared at him, considering him for a moment. "You have no brothers."

"Theodred is as my brother, the closest one I have. My sister, Eowyn, she is the match of any man."

Boromir smiled slightly. "So I have been told."

Éomer smiled, a beautiful thing and then he sighed deeply, his face becoming stern once more. "I make a vow to you, Boromir of Gondor, and I make it on my honour."

Boromir nodded, his expression serious as he waited for Éomer to gather his thoughts.

"I promise that I will find your brother and bring him back safely from whatever devilry has claimed him. I will do so even if it means my life." He sighed deeply, nodding slightly. "And if I must bind with him, I will make sure he never has cause to regret his noble decision."

Boromir felt tears sting his eyes and he looked away, watching the prow of the ship as it cut the waters. He nodded and looked back, his eyes filled with emotion. "My brother is worth my life to me. I join you in this pledge, Éomer," he replied, "and I will keep my father's decision myself when he's safe. My brother does not have to stand in my stead in this matter. I shoulder it myself, as I should have before. When he's back and he's safe, I will honour my father's command fully."

Éomer nodded, turning and staring ahead, at the spray that washed over the prow of their ship. They were travelling very fast and they would catch up, they believed, yet even as they sailed, Éomer studied the water. He had no faith that they could be lucky and so he watched the water, fearing for what he might see.

He stared at the water, even as Boromir did too. Both of them praying against the possibility that they might see that which they dreaded, the bound and murdered body of the youngest son of Denethor, the Steward of Gondor floating in the dark water on its way to the sea.

Eventide...

They rounded a bend and a dock hove into view, a sailing ship tied to it with the markings of Gondor. They slowed and drew up, hurrying to dock themselves, tying off their ship with ropes on the pilings. Boromir and Éomer jumped off, hurrying up the dock to the ship beside them. They clambered aboard, swords drawn, and searched it from top to bottom without finding anyone.

Turning and leaving quickly, they ran up the dock, heading for the tavern that dominated the hill. They entered the door, pausing in the smoky darkness, as all eyes within turned and fixed on them both. Two men rose quickly, knocking over their chairs but their path was cut short by Rohirrim coming through the back door.

Boromir, enraged, grabbed them by the collar and jerked them off their feet, slamming them into chairs. They cowered before the armed men, looking from one to the other as Boromir and Éomer seethed before them. Éomer glanced at Boromir and sheathed his sword, pulling out a long curved blade and gripping one of the men by their hair. Éomer put it against the man's throat, tightening his grip as he stared down into the terrified eyes of the sailor in his hands.

"Tell us what we wish to know or I will cut off your head and tie it to the mane of my horse," he said, huge and frightening, so imposing was he in the half-light of the room.

The man cried out, paralysed with fear and he shuddered as he stared upward, his eyes wide with terror. "I don't know where they went. They just told us to take him here and we did."

"Who?" Éomer asked, pressing the knife closer. A droplet of red slid down the man's throat.

"I don't know. They were just men, no one we had ever seen before. They paid us to sail here and let them off."

"Did they have one with a cloak like mine?" Boromir asked.

"Yes," he whimpered. "They did. They took him off and rode away."

Boromir turned to the barkeep and drew his sword. "I want horses now."

He nodded and glanced at a boy, who turned and ran out the back door. "You have them, sir. Just don't make no violence. We're a respectable inn, we are."

Boromir turned, staring at the two with fury. "Don't ever come back to Minas Tirith. Don't ever come to Gondor. If you have lied to me—"

"Oh, no, my lord," the other said, fear permeating his every pore.

"If I ever see you again, I will kill you on the spot," Boromir said quietly. He turned and walked to the back door, stepping out into the waning sunlight. Nearby, holding reins, a boy stood with horses. The Rohirrim were saddling them and soon they were mounted, thundering out of the horse yard and into the forest beyond.

Minas Tirith...

They found him in a bar, talking to a drunken woman, his hand up the skirt of her dress. A Rohirrim, glancing by chance, had seen him and by the time they had grabbed him, the table where he sat was in a shambles. They had dragged him between them, his cries and screams grating to their ears and by the time they had him cowering in the King's House, he bore the bruises of several punches and not a few kicks.

Grima shuffled in, falling on his face and when he looked up, the tableau was chilling. Eowyn, Théoden, Gamling, and Denethor sat, arrayed in a half circle before him. He stared at them, gauging his danger and sat up, pleading with Théoden with his eyes. The door opened and Theodred, Hama and a Gondorian Captain of the Guard entered, pausing behind him, their expressions hard with loathing. He was completely encircled by enemies and his heart pounded in his chest.

"What means this, my lord? What means you to treat your best and most faithful servant thus?"

"You are not mine, Grima Wormtongue ," Théoden snapped. "You have only minutes away from your death unless you tell the truth. Where is Lord Faramir?"

Grima looked at him, measuring his outrage and found himself shrivelled by the hatred focused upon him. "You speak as if I would know?"

"Who else would benefit from the breakdown in relations between Gondor and Rohan? Ever have you plotted to overtake the king and make yourself indispensable at the expense of all," Theodred snapped, his loathing clear.

"Your hatred of me is most disconcerting, my prince, since I have ever been your faithful servant," Grima whined, looking at Theodred with loathing.

"This gets us nowhere," Denethor said, glancing at Théoden. "This matter calls for harsh medicine."

Théoden nodded. "Whatever you will, my lord."

Denethor looked at his Captain and he came forward, bending down as Denethor whispered in his ear. The Captain nodded and turned, signalling to a couple of guards standing by the door. They came forward and at his behest, plucked Grima from the floor and bound his hands behind his back. For a moment, the Captain was gone and then he returned, a fine white rope in his hands. He handed it to Denethor, who held it for a moment before uncurling it and beginning a very familiar knot.

Grima stared at it, his eyes widening even as he paled and he turned as best he could, staring at Théoden with horror. "My Lord! My King! Surely you're not going to permit this outrage! This travesty of justice!"

Théoden shrugged. "I am not the King of Gondor. I cannot say what can or cannot be done here. I defer to Lord Denethor."

"But...but—" Grima sputtered as he watched Denethor hand the rope to his Captain, who tossed it over a ceiling beam, pulling it down to shoulder length. Turning, the Captain waited, watching as Denethor sat down once more.

"My lord?" he asked.

Denethor nodded and the two guards pulled Grima over to the Captain. Gamling and Hama watched intently, standing on either side of Eowyn. She stood stock still, pale and silent, not the least slighted at the thought of Grima's death. The rope was fastened around his neck, tightened, and then they all stepped back together, leaving Grima to stand forlornly alone. The Captain tugged the rope and Grima straightened, barely on tip-toes as the guard waited, all eyes once more upon Denethor.

"You have seconds only to tell me of my son and the fate that you have concocted for him." Denethor's voice was deadly, silent and soft and the room was hushed as Grima swayed.

"I have no part—"

Grima's voice was cut off with a curt nod from Denethor, the guard tugging hard on the rope. Grima lifted up, a mere few inches above the ground, gagging and choking as he kicked frantically. No one spoke. No one moved. And then Denethor nodded, the rope slacking slightly as Grima was lowered. Grima touched down, gasping and wailing, as the crowd watched unmoved.

"Where is my son?" Denethor asked, his voice ever soft and deadly.

"I do not know—"

He went up again, this time longer, his eyes bulging hideously and his tongue lolling out. Down he came again, barely able to stand as he drooled and choked, spitting up bile from his tortured body.

"Where is Faramir?" Denethor asked, watching as Grima capitulated.

"He is on a boat, going to the west. Men are to take him to Isengard, for Saruman."

"Why?" Denethor asked, his voice hard and cold.

"Because the wizard commands it," Grima hissed. "You will have to ask him. I would guess he would like you weak and divided, rather than strong and united. How hard is that to guess?"

Denethor stared at him and then rose, walking forward. Grima shrunk back, fear dominating his face as Denethor whispered to his Captain. The rope was pulled off the ceiling beam and Grima was hauled out, disappearing through the doorway to the dungeon below. It was quiet a moment and then Gamling turned, staring at his lord for instructions.

"This is a matter concerning both our lands. Gamling and Hama, take a contingent of Riders and go west. Faramir must not make Isengard," Théoden said.

"I will go too," Theodred said, nodding to his father, who nodded back.

"I will send men as well," Denethor replied. "My son will go. We will find Boromir and send him by river."

They nodded together, unaware that this had already happened as the forces of rescue gathered in the Citadel.

Just before dawn...

He opened his eyes, yawning deeply, awakened from sleep by his dream. He rolled over and closed his eyes, falling into sleep once more ...

They rode hard, three of them making time on the forest road that led west. The trip would be quick, riding hard and non-stop, taking them through the Gap of Rohan. Faramir rode with them, his side aching and his hope waning. The abuse had escalated since leaving the ship, punches and kicks routine now. The wound in his side felt hot to his touch and he was weary and thirsty, the ropes cutting his wrists.

The mountains were ahead and he was unclear where he was, so seldom had he come from the confines of his country. But he knew they were in the vicinity of the Gap, evading as they went any contact from the Rohirrim. He dreaded if they did, even as he hoped they would. Where he was headed, his captors wouldn't say. They would just smirk at him, slapping him hard for his inquiries until he had learned it was better not to ask.

The mountains were before him, imposing and formidable. But in his heart he knew that his brother was searching for him. He didn't doubt it even as he despaired. He only hoped that Boromir would be looking in the right direction.

On the trail...

The sun set and they had to stop, the fear of losing the trail greatly weighing on their decision. They settled light, a small fire and a meal of hard tack, water and some bread enough for now. They set a guard and Boromir sat by the fire, staring into it as he tried not to consider the things that were happening to Faramir. He knew he was alive, he willed it to be so and so he sat and worried, his pain bare on his face.

Éomer stared at him, at the man he had hated. This son of privilege, of wealth and of grandeur. He had not liked Boromir from the day that he met him, mocking him at an archery event at a festival they had both attended. It was galling, the idea of being considered a buffoon because he came from a more rural tradition. He was a well-educated man, Éomer of Rohan, a leader among his people and deeply respected. They lived in a great hall on the top of a massive outcropping of stone, a spire of rock-ribbed solidity from the centre of the earth. It suited them, these hard men of the saddle and to hear mockery of his culture was harsh. He had consigned Boromir to the dark corner of his mind where he relegated fools and liars and cheats. He had not changed his mind until this very moment, preferring to consider him as something less than a man. It was easier all around, diminishing this scion of lords unnumbered than to make him a man and face him.

Now it was all different, a truce brokered by Faramir, the younger but much wiser man, changing everything in the blink of an eye. Faramir was missing and Éomer dreaded that the fate of the younger man would be death or worse. He resolved as he sat staring at the fire to be a man and honour his commitments, the first one being Faramir.

He had dreaded and loathed this whole process, his uncle's selection of his future and when he had heard it was Boromir, he had railed to no avail. That Faramir would step in, giving way for his brother, it had turned things around and now he felt shame. He could see it in Boromir, in the cast of his eyes. They both felt it, he knew and they would both die to redeem it.

"Your brother is remarkable," Éomer offered.

Dark eyes met his as Boromir looked up. "My brother is a better man than I will ever be," he said, pain in his voice as he stared into the fire. "When we find him, I will tell him so."

"As will I," Éomer replied. They both stared at each other, nodding in agreement as overhead the waning moon shown weakly in the velvety night sky.

At dawn's light...

He rose stiffly, rubbing his wrists, his ankles throbbing from their bindings in the night. He was tired, sore and hungry, his thirst a burning thing and they gave him little to soothe it, preferring to gather to ride as soon as possible.

He climbed on his horse, the ties of his wrists fastened to the pommel and then they turned west, riding in the crisp morning air. They had no way of knowing that behind them by hours men were pursuing, intent on catching up.

The mountains were closer, white sentinels of the world, uncaring spectators of the desperate game being played. Faramir rode between them, rocking in the saddle, as his fever burned from his wounds and his hurts. He scratched his nose, leaning down in the saddle and as he did, he loosened a button at his throat. A harsh slap stilled him and he swallowed hard, wishing he were lying down on a bed in his home.

An hour behind him, riding their horses hard, Éomer and Boromir were in hot pursuit. Their party was closing the gap between them and as they followed the trail, they had only one thing in mind. Vengeance burned in both of their hearts as they galloped over the hard pack of the road toward the Gap.

Beyond them, riding swift and straight, another force was coming, going about their duty as they patrolled their homeland. A party of Rohirrim, on routine patrol were following the hoof prints of smugglers toward the Gap. They were not aware of the hoopla, the haste of their lord as he went on his errand, nor were they aware that farther away others rode.

Theodred and Gamling, Hama and men of Gondor, Rohirrim and Numenorean, galloped toward the west together. They rode hard, heading for the Gap as in the dungeons of Denethor, Grima Wormtongue grovelled, terrified for his life.

Part 6

"Hurry."

The man looked at Faramir, noting the pale cast to his features. He reached out and gripped his arm, pulling him to his feet. They had stopped a moment, a concession to Faramir's growing distress and now they were nervous, in a hurry to reach Orthanc.

"Let me sit a moment," Faramir said, swaying as he stood by his horse. His hands hurt, the ropes chaffing his wrists and the water they had finally given him was not enough.

"We have to go," the man replied harshly, tugging Faramir closer as he turned to the horse.

A shout behind him brought him up short and Faramir leaned against the horse wearily as the bully beside him paused. The other ran back, pausing beside him, hurriedly whispering together as they stood. Faramir didn't catch it all, the fever in his brow overwhelming but he heard the sound of horse hooves even as he waited.

The hands left him and the sounds of men mounting horses met him as he fell to his knees in weakness. They had abandoned him, clambering onto their own horses as the sight of many mounted men broke the crest of the hill. He lay on the ground, his own horse moving off as men on horseback swept past him. Several stopped as men dismounted and hands gently turned him, rolling him over on his back.

Boromir was frantic, his face reflecting panic as he pulled his knife and cut the ropes free. Éomer wheeled his horse, glancing at the fleeing men as he stared with fear down at Faramir on the ground. "Is he alive?"

Boromir checked his pulse and found it weak but steady and turned, nodding to Éomer. The horseman felt great relief, even as rage filled him and he turned, galloping off in hot pursuit of the enemy. A horseman, Maribol, noted for healing, knelt beside Faramir, helping Boromir check him for wounds. The rest of his patrol, the force riding through as their duty required had gone ahead with Éomer and the others after the brigands. He began his work, cleaning and dressing the wound and mixing a potion of herbs in a cup. Holding Faramir's head up, Boromir watched as Maribol poured it into him, helping him as best he could to keep the drink down.

He rose and looked around, finding a sheltered place to rest and gathering the wounded man, helped Boromir move him. They collected wood and a fire was started as Boromir stripped his bunk roll for blankets for his brother.

Horses approaching could be heard and then they appeared, men riding in close formation as they came down the road. They slowed and branched out, pulling to a stop as Éomer jumped from the saddle, hurrying to where Faramir lay. He knelt and touched Faramir's face, noting with anxiety his pale still form. He glanced up at Boromir, seeking an answer and Boromir shrugged helplessly, glancing at Maribol.

"What is the condition of the prince?" Éomer asked, as the healer stepped forward, a bowl of warm water in hand. Maribol knelt and began to bathe Faramir's face.

"I fear that he has infection from the wound in his side. But I believe that he will recover, my lord," he said. Boromir moved, his eyes never leaving Faramir as Éomer stepped away to join him. They stood a moment, watching as Maribol gently tended Faramir and then they turned and looked at the Riders, searching for the ones they wanted.

The men had dismounted, settling in to stay a while. Sitting on a rock together, two battered and bound men waited sullenly. Boromir and Éomer, as if of one mind, stepped together, walking to where they sat. The men were silent, staring at the ground. Éomer reached out and gripped one by the throat, pulling him to his feet.

"Speak," he commanded, glaring with murder in his eyes at the brigand.

"Grima told us he had a package to deliver to Orthanc. We were just doing a job of work."

Éomer squeezed hard, the man gasping as he struggled to breathe. "More. All of it."

"We were to take him to Saruman. That's all we know," the other man blurted, glancing fearfully from Boromir to Éomer and back again.

"Why?" Boromir demanded, his hand resting on his sword.

"We don't know. Ask Wormtongue. He can tell you. They're friends, comrades. They are in business together. Why, we don't know. I swear !"

Éomer dropped the man in his grasp and looked at Boromir, glancing once again to where Faramir lay. Stepping back, he drew Boromir with him, pausing for a moment as he considered the news. "We can only assume that Saruman has some plan for us, some plan that relies on our countries being divided."

Boromir nodded, considering the criminals. "He won't get what he wants then," he said softly. He looked at Éomer, at the tall embodiment of Rohan and pushed his past objections from the front of his mind. "He will not get what he wants."

Éomer looked toward Faramir and then at Boromir, nodding finally as he resolved their dilemma. "Agreed," he said, holding out his hand. Boromir grasped it, shaking it firmly.

They turned and walked back, sitting down near to the patient and for the rest of the day and night, they would wait at the camp.

The next morning...

"I think so."

Boromir looked doubtful as Faramir was hoisted up into the saddle, settling as comfortably as he could in front of Éomer. The big man rode a meara, a horse more than up to the challenge of carrying two men over distance.

Faramir was dizzy yet, pained from many bruising blows and unsettled, his fever falling but slowly. It was decided that he would ride with a horseman, Éomer claiming the right and so it was settled. Strong arms encircled him as Éomer held him in place. They gathered around him, the Riders and the hunters, making toward the east and the kingdom of Gondor.

The day would be long, the riding would be hard and they would pause from time to time to rest for a while. By the time they met Theodred and the others riding east, Faramir was riding his own horse. They gathered together, travelling as a unit and when they reached the Pelennor, the city was in full hue and cry.

Flags and banners snapped in the breeze, people waved and cheered their relief and approval. They rode toward the great city, the sound of silver trumpets calling out their arrival as they galloped forward. Sun glinted off the helms of the Riders and the capes of green flowed in the breeze. At the front of the column, riding side-by-side, two sons of Gondor and a son of Rohan rode, followed by nobles and princes and soldiers of the guard. And at the end, riding in ignobility, two bound brigands were towed on horseback.

Denethor and Théoden stood at the king's balcony, watching as the procession made their way toward the city. Smiling at last, they turned together, walking inside to share a glass of wine in triumph. They had come back to the White City, the lords of the world and soon there would be celebrating and dancing and singing. Soon the fortunes of Gondor and Rohan would be bound by blood, the most lasting tie of them all.

In the King's House...

They had done it at last, joining the houses of great lords together and the dancing and singing and conversation still ran on. Boromir stood by the fire, smiling broadly, wearing the circlet of his station as well as the ring of marriage on his hand. Nearby, talking with companions, Éomer stood beaming. He was tall and handsome, dressed in great finery, a ring of marriage on his hand as well.

Faramir stood by the table, sipping wine as he watched them, the two men who had factored so largely in his mind. They had chosen to do the right thing, giving their fortune and future to the binding of two kingdoms and now the magic hour had arrived at long last. It was late and the party was still going but the moment of truth was at hand, the consummation of the marriage was hard at hand.

He watched as Boromir slipped out, walking from the room to retire for the night. Éomer glanced back, watching him go and then he slipped away, disappearing himself into the corridors of the house. Faramir sighed and set down his cup, slipping out onto the balcony and the fresh night air. He stood a moment, staring at the stars and then he continued onward, heading for his chambers to retire.

People were dancing and singing, shouts and fireworks punctured the night. It was warm and people were happy, celebrating the regal binding of the houses of Gondor and Rohan. The worlds of men were closer than ever and as he climbed the backstairs, he smiled to himself. It would take a consummation now, a joining of two bodies before it was officially a marriage of equals.

Boromir and Éomer were retiring for the night and he was too, fading from the festivities for the evening. He entered his chambers, pausing as he did, a smile forming on his lips. Boromir smiled back, gesturing for him to come and he did, following him to another room. Through joined doors, ever unlocked, that they had shared since boys, Faramir slipped into Boromir's rooms, spotting Éomer standing by the fireplace therein.

Éomer stood waiting, a smile on his face, staring at Faramir as he paused inside. Boromir grinned, glancing at both of them, chuckling as he moved to leave the room.

"For the good of Gondor?" he whispered to his brother as he passed.

Faramir smiled and nodded back. "For the good of us all," he whispered softly, the click of the door behind him signalling that they were finally alone.

Éomer smiled and moved closer, slipping his arms around Faramir's waist. He leaned down, kissing him softly, sighing with desire at the softness of Faramir's lips. "For the pleasure of Rohan, for the good of Gondor."

"A consummation makes it so," Faramir replied.

Éomer stepped back, watching as Faramir slipped from his garments, standing before him naked and unashamed. A big hand gently covered a sore spot on his side and Faramir flinched slightly before relaxing. "Does it still pain you?" he asked, frowning.

"Only a little," Faramir replied.

"I will heal you," Éomer whispered, leaning down to kiss his lover on the lips. He pulled Faramir closer, caressing his naked body and felt a happiness suffuse him that he hadn't felt before.

In minutes they were both naked and lying together for the first time, touching and feeling things that would ever be theirs alone. By the time the morning came, the marriage would be consummated and Éomer would have possessed a prince of Gondor. That it wasn't the one he had pledged to was all right between the three of them, for the alliances that had been born on the trail would hold.

The sun heralded the morning when the Rohirrim left Gondor at last, riding with them the second son of Denethor on a splendid white horse. Standing on the balcony of the King's House, Boromir waved to his brother as he left. When the autumn returned, Faramir would also, spending his time between the two capitals. But then he would, this new delegate to Rohan and with a smile, Boromir considered himself a very lucky man. He had the very best of all possible worlds.

That morning in another place...

Sam sat in the truck, eating his lunch, considering the dinner date that he had with Tom that night. 'Dinner at my house', the answering machine said, Tom's cheery voice a balm to his senses.

Somehow it would be all right, this new venture he was undertaking. He didn't know how it would turn out for the long term future. But for the here and now, it was what he needed and so he looked forward to being alone with Tom. Tonight, he would step up to the plate and act on his new feelings. Something good had happened and he was going to be happy, finding in his new recognition of himself a place to start.

He finished his lunch and turned on the truck, moving slowly from the side road where he had parked for his meal. Standing behind a fence, his bright eyes shining, a great white horse watched him as he drove down the road. Raising his head, a shrill cry piercing the air, the horse turned and began to run alongside him, matching him stride for stride in speed. It flew along, its mane and tail flying, a vision of another age manifesting itself beside him.

Sam watched the magnificent horse gallop, the vision of freedom and off his back lifted a lot of things he never thought he would lose. Tonight, he would begin living his life and tomorrow he would take whatever might come. As he drove down the road, the horse galloped beside him until he drove away, disappearing into the distance from sight and sound.

The stallion paused, staring after him, his head held high and his pride surpassing. For a moment, it was still and then it turned once again, running back across the field, bearing with it the legends of its forefathers in the shining beauty of its flight.

The End

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