Order of the Garter

The celebration of Éowyn and Faramir’s union marked the first great festivity in Rohan since the onset of war. The people yearned for mirth, and the occasion was deemed most worthy. Thus, both the bride’s and groom’s kin resolved to hold two feasts: one in Meduseld, the golden hall of Edoras, and another in Gondor, in Ithilien, which King Elessar had granted to Faramir as his fief. Yet it was here, in her ancestral home, that Éowyn was to be wedded to Faramir. On a radiant morn, ere the festival of midsummer, the young couple exchanged vows, with the noblest of Middle-earth’s free peoples bearing witness. As the sun dipped low, the revelry began. Ale flowed freely as a river. Peregrin Took sang once more, his songs now fitting for royal halls and glorious days. Gimli, ever bold, challenged Legolas to a contest of drink, and the elf, with prudent guile, yielded ere the night was done, leaving the indefatigable dwarf still standing. Legolas’ pride endured the jest. Aragorn drank but sparingly, for his heart needed no wine to rejoice. The joy of fair Éowyn, her eyes aglow, and the gaze she bestowed upon her lawful husband—these were his draught. Yet another glance, one oft caught upon himself, intoxicated him far more. Boromir wielded a look that could still words in the throat and set thoughts galloping like wild steeds. With a single glance, the Steward could quell wrath, soothe weariness, or banish melancholy. He wielded this power over Aragorn oft and with delight, so much so that among the court, jests abounded as to who truly held sway in Gondor. Now Boromir, touched by wine, burned brighter, his gaze piercing as a blade. Having fulfilled his duty as the groom’s brother in a round of dance, he returned to Aragorn, nigh collapsing into the chair beside him. His cheeks flushed, his chest heaved, and he drank deeply of watered wine—watered, at Aragorn’s insistence—and laughed. ‘Are you grown weary, Your Majesty?’ asked Boromir, licking his lips with deliberate languor, knowing well how it stirred Aragorn. ‘I am too old for such revels,’ Aragorn replied with a chuckle. ‘Yet it gladdens me to behold the merriment.’ ‘Old? Did you mark how Gandalf danced but now?’ Boromir laughed heartily. ‘He may seem young as he pleases, being a wizard,’ Aragorn said, shaking his head. ‘Very well, I shall find means to entertain you,’ said Boromir. He leaned toward Aragorn, as if for a kiss, though such displays were rare in public. Aragorn, blaming the wine, was ready to indulge the whim, deeming it unlikely to draw notice. Yet instead of the rough kiss he expected, Boromir took Aragorn’s hand and placed it upon his thigh. Yielding to the invitation, Aragorn traced his fingers along the fabric, noting its fineness—evidently, Boromir wore no undergarments, a liberty he permitted himself in summer. Aragorn’s gaze drifted to the Steward’s groin, where only a thin shirt and heavy belt stood between desire and flesh. Yet his lingering touch revealed not only the absence of expected cloth but the presence of something new. ‘What is this?’ Aragorn asked softly, his fingers brushing a band encircling Boromir’s thigh. ‘A garter,’ Boromir whispered, and Aragorn felt a fire kindle in his hands and a warmth pool in his loins. ‘Silk, lace, and river pearls,’ Boromir continued, watching his king’s face. ‘And of what hue?’ Aragorn asked, his lips dry. ‘White,’ Boromir breathed, smiling. ‘Like sea-foam.’ Aragorn’s fingers traced the garter’s outline, conjuring its form: snowy lace embracing firm flesh, muscles rolling beneath delicate ties, tiny roseate pearls gleaming against auburn hair. He could envision Boromir clad solely in that garter, sprawled upon a broad bed. Boromir met Aragorn’s eyes, grinning at the success of his ploy. Aragorn cursed inwardly. To slip away from the feast would be too conspicuous, for the absence of such honoured guests would not go unmarked. To feign sudden illness—both of them?—would alarm their companions. To corner the brazen Steward in some shadowed nook was no solution either, for Aragorn desired to prolong the pleasure and teach the rogue a lesson. His hand wandered higher, teasingly close. ‘When the newlyweds are seen to their rest,’ Aragorn said at last, ‘I expect you in our chambers. Be not tardy, for your own sake.’ ‘For yours, be first in line,’ Boromir replied, leaning closer until Aragorn’s hand pressed against his groin. For a fleeting moment, fingers closed around a hardened length through scandalously thin cloth. Indeed, the long shirt and tunic were Boromir’s sole shield. ‘Rogue,’ Aragorn hissed, not unkindly, withdrawing his hand. Boromir laughed softly, stole a swift kiss, and sprang back into the whirl of the feast. Aragorn watched him, plotting retribution. To endure hours of anticipation, knowing what awaited, was torment—a torment worthy of recompense. Deep in the night, when the newlyweds were at last escorted to their bridal bed, Aragorn returned to the chambers he shared with Boromir. He had procured a coil of fine rope and awaited his beloved with a plan of vengeance. Boromir appeared soon after, swaying slightly in the doorway, brushing the frame with his shoulder. Aragorn forbore to chide him for overindulgence, for a drunken Boromir was bolder still, and easier to provoke. ‘What is that?’ Boromir asked, eyeing the rope in Aragorn’s hands. ‘You made me yearn and wait,’ Aragorn replied. ‘Now it is my turn. Remove your shirt and lie down.’ It was a matter of trust. They had never ventured thus before, always exploring each other with care, eschewing force or pain. Pain and fear had no place in their bed, and Aragorn would not admit them now. Though his words carried the weight of command, he saw Boromir hesitate. A refusal would have seen the rope cast aside. But Boromir grinned and began to disrobe. He slowly untied the sash over his shirt, then shed the garment, stretching languidly. He reached for his belt, but Aragorn stayed him and bade him lie down. Boromir sprawled upon the pillows, and Aragorn bound his wrists to the bedposts, then stepped back to admire his work. ‘Do you mean to stare all night?’ Boromir protested, testing the ropes with a tug. ‘Cease gawking and set to it.’ ‘Speak again, and I shall fashion a gag,’ Aragorn warned. He climbed onto the bed, settling between Boromir’s parted legs. Boromir shifted his hips hopefully, earning a light swat. ‘Lie still, and let me hear no sound,’ Aragorn commanded. He unbuckled Boromir’s belt, brushing the straining flesh beneath. Slowly, he drew the trousers down, bending each leg to free it from the cloth. No undergarments shielded Boromir, who lay bare upon the sheets, save for the garter. He parted his legs eagerly, but Aragorn halted him. And then he did what he had longed for these past hours. He bent and pressed his lips to the skin above the lace. With featherlight kisses, he traced from garter to hipbone and back. His fingertips grazed beneath the band, feeling the imprint of seams. His tongue teased the pearls sewn along the edge. Then, turning the garter, he tugged the tie with his teeth, loosening it, and kissed away the marks it left. Aragorn awaited a moan or plea, but heard only quickened breaths. He glimpsed Boromir’s member, pressed against his belly, a glistening thread trailing from it. Patience was never Boromir’s virtue. When Aragorn resumed tracing patterns along his thigh, perilously close to his need, Boromir broke. ‘Enough licking there!’ he growled, breathless. ‘Your mouth is needed elsewhere!’ ‘And what did I say about yours?’ Aragorn asked. He loomed over Boromir, bracing himself on the pillows. He silenced him with a deep, lingering kiss, leaving them both gasping. Aragorn fought his own mounting desire but held firm. He shed his shirt to tease Boromir further, loosened his trousers to ease his own ache, but kept them on. Boromir, watching, groaned and sank back, knowing more waiting lay ahead. Yet he soon raised his head again. Aragorn settled once more between his legs and, at last, touched the straining flesh. Without prelude, he took it into his mouth, engulfing half its length, and was rewarded with a low, prolonged moan. ‘I bade you be silent,’ Aragorn sighed, knowing Boromir could never comply, especially not in bed. The game was amusing, and the punishment prepared. He removed the garter and wound it several times around the base of Boromir’s member, beneath his stones, tightening it firmly. ‘Speak only when I ask,’ he reminded, awaiting a nod before resuming. He relished pleasuring Boromir thus. There was ample to explore, and Gondor’s maids and men had lost much when this northern wanderer claimed the Steward’s heart. Boromir quivered, his hips rising to meet each touch, his muscles rippling, his breath ragged. Were his hands free, they would have clutched the sheets or tangled in Aragorn’s hair, guiding him. Today, Aragorn savoured the control, alternating light kisses along the sensitive ridge with swift, deep strokes, pausing each time he sensed the edge, until Boromir’s restraint dissolved into a stifled whimper. Boromir’s gaze pleaded, silent but desperate. Sweat beaded on his brow and neck, his lips were bitten, and the ropes marked his wrists. Moved by this silent entreaty, Aragorn relented. He shed his trousers and retrieved a vial of scented oil from his pack. Boromir’s hopeful eyes followed it. Yet the torment continued. Aragorn lingered over the tight ring of muscle, delighting in Boromir’s exquisite tightness despite their frequent unions. His robust frame, honed by riding and an aversion to idleness, demanded patient preparation—a task Aragorn savoured, knowing Boromir’s impatience. Given his way, Boromir would rush headlong, heedless of harm. But today, his will was surrendered. Aragorn worked the oil into the skin, easing one finger inside, then two, then three, as the chamber filled with the scent of spiced herbs, mingling with sweat and desire. When Boromir yielded fully, his muscles pliant, Aragorn placed a pillow beneath his hips and prepared himself with swift strokes. Boromir, lifting his head, fixed his gaze on the flushed member he would receive, his eyes dark with want. Aragorn leaned down, kissing him gently to soothe. ‘Bear it a little longer,’ he whispered. Feeling the long-awaited entry, Boromir groaned, falling back against the pillows, pressing his head into them. He raised his hips, but Aragorn restrained him, entering slowly. The tight, heated depths yielded gradually as Aragorn pressed forward, withdrawing slightly before delving deeper. At last fully sheathed, he heard a grateful moan. Then, abandoning gentleness, he set a fierce, uneven rhythm. Deep thrusts gave way to gentle sways; at times, he withdrew entirely to enter anew. Boromir, unable to predict the cadence, arched and gasped through clenched teeth. His nature was to take, not yield, yet his choice had altered this. Accepting Aragorn, he craved more. His heavy, blood-filled member strained against his belly, rising with each deep thrust, yet release eluded him. ‘Release me,’ Boromir pleaded aloud. Aragorn saw the ropes bite into his skin, his sinews taut with the urge to break free and touch himself. ‘Very well,’ Aragorn said, his own climax near, unable to prolong the torment. He loosened the garter. ‘But first, answer me.’ ‘What?’ Boromir gasped. ‘Who rules Gondor?’ Aragorn asked, rocking slowly, his fingers encircling Boromir’s aching flesh. ‘You!’ Boromir cried, straining toward the touch, but the hand withdrew. ‘And why?’ Aragorn asked, squeezing the tip and stroking twice to the base. ‘By right of sword and blood!’ Boromir answered, eyes shut, bracing for release. ‘Wrong,’ Aragorn said, clucking his tongue. He withdrew his hand, lifted Boromir’s knees, and resumed his slow, deep thrusts. ‘Release me!’ Boromir near shouted. ‘Please!’ A note in his voice alarmed Aragorn, as if tears were near. He leaned down, kissing Boromir’s lips, cheeks, and temples as his head thrashed. ‘Release me,’ Boromir whispered. ‘You are Gondor’s king, my king!’ ‘Time was, I needed no such ploys to hear you say it,’ Aragorn said, smiling, and kissed him again. ‘I swear to say it oftener, only release me!’ ‘So be it.’ Aragorn moved swiftly, driving himself to the brink. As pleasure surged, he stroked Boromir with one hand, cradling his head with the other. Boromir arched with a cry of torment and ecstasy, his body convulsing, his inner heat gripping Aragorn. Aragorn held him fast, lest he strike the headboard. The climax lingered so long that Aragorn feared he had overdone it. At last, Boromir sank back, trembling faintly, breathing deeply. His belly and Aragorn’s hand were slick with seed. They lay entwined, recovering, pleasure resonating through their limbs. When their breaths steadied, Aragorn propped himself on an elbow and gazed at Boromir. ‘Are you well?’ he asked, brushing sweat-damp hair from Boromir’s brow. Boromir’s eyes, still hazy, met his. He turned, kissing Aragorn’s palm, heedless of where it had been, grateful for its touch. ‘I’ll not dare this again soon,’ Boromir said honestly, though his smile and the evidence of his pleasure spoke otherwise. ‘But why was my answer wrong? Are you not king by Isildur’s blood and Gondor’s salvation?’ ‘No,’ Aragorn said, smiling. ‘My Gondor is you. And I rule you only when you permit it.’ Before Boromir could retort, Aragorn kissed him once more.