Aran declares him suitable and they leave

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Chapter 12: Goodbye to Gondor[edit]

this page added by Cyndra

Special thanks to Minx for suggestions, ideas, and beta.

Marek quickly signed the treaty papers and gave them to the steward. The prince opened his hand, offering it to Faramir while relishing the mixed reception the ranger received. The prince’s eyes roamed the attire, admiring Aran’s fashion ability. Denethor frowned with disapproval, and Aragorn’s tensed body confirmed Marek’s suspicion. Jealousy.

“Magnificent.” Marek cupped Faramir’s chin, smirking at Aragorn before he passionately kissed the younger man’s lips. Aran’s confirmation of Faramir’s virginity had sent the Gondor king into a whirlwind of emotions. Marek hid his amusement when Aragorn stared fiercely at the steward. Had Denethor lied to the king?

“I give my blessings to your marriage, Prince Marek.” Aran’s announcement broke Marek’s concentration. Faramir trembled slightly ending the kiss with a blank expression. Still suffering from the shock of the examination, Faramir was responding to everything Marek did while Aragorn looked on in envy.

Marek’s eyes narrowed, livid at Aran’s bad timing.

The old man’s eyes twinkled with mischief using them to indict Faramir. “My lord, wedding arrangements should commence immediately. As should the pre-ceremony ritual. Need I remind you of an unforeseeable, yet pleasant obstacle. Preparations must be planned to coincide with the wedding.”

Marek nodded, acknowledging Aran’s words. The advisor referred to the branding ritual which must be fulfilled three days before the wedding ceremony. With Faramir’s virginity established, Aran demanded more time to prepare for the wedding.

How a male’s virginity could be confirmed, Marek did not know. However, he trusted Aran, and in Umbar, Aran’s word was binding. If Aran wanted more time with Faramir, he would grant it. “Gentlemen, I have kept my ship delayed long enough. Faramir, please say your farewells quickly. I, like my crew, are most anxious to return home.”

“Prince Marek, Faramir will accompany Gondor’s representatives to Umbar for the wedding.” Aragorn glanced from Faramir to Marek, concern crossed his features. “Gondor will not permit…”

“Permit.” Marek raised his brow. Aragorn’s act of concern was a mockery. Never would he allow Aragorn a chance to influence Faramir before the wedding. “Read the treaty you signed, your majesty, the consort comes with me. I will not relent this claim. Unless you wish to dissolve the treaty before the ink has dried.”

“No.” Aragorn cast a sorrowful glance at Faramir. “My best, Faramir. May your life be long, happy and fulfilled.” Aragorn kissed the ranger’s forehead. “Gondor honors your sacrifice.”

Faramir kept his eyes lowered, refusing to look at the king.

Aragorn took the younger man’s hands into his. “Have you nothing to say, my friend.”

Friend. Hearing the word, Faramir lifted his head, swallowing the bitterness he felt. Any respect he had for Aragorn disappeared the instant Aran molested him without challenge. It was a betrayal, something he believed Aragorn incapable of doing. His father, yes, but never Aragorn. Faramir glanced at the steward, wanting a final blessing but Denethor read the treaty papers and ignored him. “You have your wish, Father,” he said, blinking back tears. “You now have one son.”

“I always had one son. You, sir, were a mistake, and your uses insignificant.” Denethor said not bothering to lower the papers. “Nothing I did could ratify your burdensome shadow until now. An orc can spread their legs. I am sure even you can manage that.”

Aragorn gasped, spun around to glare at his steward. Never had such venom been spewed from father to son. “Lord Denethor, you son leaves Gondor this night. Have the decency to grant him dignity.”

Marek snatched the robe Aran had on his arm and dressed Faramir into it. “My beauty, with your pale skin, and bright eyes, you will attract much attention. In Umbar, though many, myself included, are descended from Castamir, the culture is very different. Fear not, Aran shall become your guide, confident and most importantly my substitute whenever my duties call me away from the city.”

Aran squeezed Faramir’s chin, “Come child, the robe will conceal your identity from the citadel guards and the citizens of Minas Tirith.”

Faramir nodded, and followed Marek out of the throne room where a carriage and Marek’s personal guard waited. He climbed inside the carriage, sitting in the place instructed by a soldier.

Aran and Marek took their seats opposite him, muttering amongst themselves before Marek gave an order. “Ride. We sail within the hour.”

The familiar smells, noises, and landmarks on every level of the city assaulted Faramir emotionally. Unless Marek agreed, he would never see Minis Tirith or his people again. In the comfort of darkness, Faramir allowed himself the chance to release his pinned up emotions.

Lower and lower the entourage continued through the gates, unmolested until they reached the great gate. The large gate opened without incident and the entourage continued their journey towards the large ship docked in Osgiliath.

Strange men cheered as they approached. A large plank lowered, allowing the entourage to board the ship. Marek stood up, waved to the men gathering around the carriage and pulled Faramir to his feet. With a slap to the buttocks, he whispered harshly in Faramir’s ear. “Refuse the men this entertainment and suffer the consequences.” The robe was strip from the ranger’s body and tossed to the crowd who chanted ‘more’.

The lures, sexual comments, and mockeries, along with the throne room incident were too much for Faramir’s distraught mind to handle. Already exhausted, both mentally and physically, he tried to flee only to fall into Marek’s large chest. A large arm wrapped around his back, almost crushing him. Another hand clasped his inner thigh and moved upwards and underneath the silk shirt to squeeze a firm buttock, much to the delight of the men and the mortification of Faramir.

Requests for a public undressing and other vulgar suggestions made Faramir’s head spin. He started hyperventilating.

Marek was unsympathetic, continuing the fondling in a rapid pace until the shirt was raised to reveal the pale well-spanked bottom to the cheering crowd. Two thumbs slid into the cleft and cruelly separated the buttocks to reveal Faramir’s most intimate opening. “Behold my virgin bride. Soon Harad will breach Gondor’s tightest realm.”

Marek lowered the shirt, laughing at the men’s jeers and complaints. He swept Faramir into his arms, kissed the stunned ranger’s lips and made his way to his private cabin.

“Did you feel their eyes, my beauty?” Marek asked, placing Faramir on the large bed. A callus finger traced the jaw line. “Many would forfeit their lives for one moment with you.”

Aran’s face looked down, scrutinizing the ranger. “His face blushes so easily, my prince. Though not as red as his little bottom. I am surprised he has no discomfort when sitting. But enough with the past. He belongs to you now. The cabin has been arranged as you instructed. Preparations have been made for your indulgence.”

“Excellent, I am most anxious to explore my betroth’s body. The…”

“No,” Faramir shouted, climbing out of the bed. He turned and stared defiantly at Marek. “I have been taken from my homeland, forced to dress in a garment only a whore would wear, betroth without consent, and groveled at by men whose manners rival orcs. Well, gentlemen, I refuse to endure further abuse.”

“It seems the Gondorian has been weaned.” Aran folded his arms, and stared at the ranger. “Not attached to the tit as I first thought.” He turned to the prince and raised a questioning brow. “Or is he?”

“You have been sheltered, Faramir. I am, how shall you say, very well endowed and due to your lack of love-making experience, your body must be prepared to receive me on our wedding night. It is one thing to bed a virgin, it is another to have my rights as your husband withheld due to inconvenience.”

“Prince Marek will not be inconvenienced, nor will he break his vow to you.” Aran shoved a steaming hot mug in front of Faramir’s face. “Drink this. It will calm your nerves.”

The ranger took the cup, stared into the dark brew hesitant to obey. Receiving an angry glare from both Aran and Marek, Faramir took a sip and was surprise at the sweet taste. He needed no further persuasion to finish the drink.

Aran took the empty mug to the desk, pulled open a drawer and took out several small items he deliberately hid from Faramir.

The ship’s captain knocked, entered carrying a small smoking canister and placed it on the desk before leaving. Aran picked up a thin metal rod, attached something to the top and then placed it inside the canister. “Whenever you are ready, my prince.”

The distance closed between prince and ranger. Marek lifted Faramir’s chin and stared into the younger man’s eyes. “Tonight, I make the first of my claims as your husband.” Fingers curled underneath the shirt and lifted it above Faramir’s chest before the ranger had a chance to react.

Fully exposed to Marek’s lusty eyes, Faramir tried grabbing the garment but it was yanked above his arms to cover his face. He fought blindly, struggling in Marek’s arms as he was lifted, carried and placed unto the bed. He managed to free his head from the shirt but the material twisted, pinning his arms within the garment.

Marek’s knee wedged between his legs and forced them apart.

“No,” Faramir struggled, fighting to free himself as Marek lowered himself on top of him. “You gave your word.”

“Shush,” Marek whispered, taking his betroth’s lips within his own. The kiss deepened and Marek forced the tender lips open, using his strong tongue to separate them. The prince moaned deeply into the warm mouth while freeing the garment from Faramir’s arms. The same hand entrapped both of the ranger’s wrists while the other explored the body underneath him.

Faramir tried struggling, twisting from underneath the stronger man. Marek gently broke the kiss, moving his mouth down the exposed neck. He began sucking in earnest, marking the younger man as his betrothed. The struggles began to cease and Marek released his hold on the wrists, continuing the marking on the ranger’s neck.

Finished, he lifted his head to inspect the passion mark. A dark red splotch started forming where he had been sucking, the first indication of a developing bruise that will adorn his consort’s neck on their wedding day.

He stared into the younger man’s eyes once again, this time more deeply. The pupils were dilating, and soon the numbness effect will spread throughout the body, where it will immobilize its victim. Yes, the brew was taking effect.

Faramir tried speaking only light gasps of air escaped his lips.

“Relax, you are truly beautiful against the silk sheets.” Marek rolled off the younger man and pulled the ranger into his lap. The prince lifted one of Faramir’s legs and placed it over his shoulder, further exposing Faramir privates. Marek slipped his hand in between the outstretched legs, fondling the lax organ. “It is time, Aran. He no longer responds.”

Aran moved to the bed carrying a small branding iron. The royal crest of Prince Marek glowed brightly on the face of the branding iron.

Faramir was terrified, unable to move, and completely exposed with no chance to defend himself. His eyes pleaded with Marek, terrified over the sudden paralysis.

“The effects are temporarily and will diminish within the hour.” Marek smiled down with a predatory grin. “Though your muscles are temporarily paralyzed, you shall not be spared the pain of receiving my mark. Forever will you remember the moment you became mine.”

Marek’s fingers clasped the limp organ, carefully lifting it to give Aran access to the scrotum. “I want a clean mark, Aran. Afterward no claims can be argued over ownership.”

What happens next?[edit]


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