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Chapter
1
Sounds of laughter
and idle chatter wafted through the high ceiling-ed hall as joy and
mirth reigned supreme among the wedding guests. The bride glowed with
pride and love while the groom’s countenance exhibited his pleasure,
as did the revered look that crossed his eyes each time he set eyes
on the golden haired fair lady he had just bound himself in marriage
to.
While in a tiny
alcove just outside the room, a dark haired young man looked out of
the window at the starry sky, trying to forget that the woman he loved
was marrying another. Faramir, Steward of Gondor and the newly named
Prince of Ithilien had fallen in love with Éowyn of Rohan the moment
he had seen her while both were recovering from injuries during the
War of the Ring. How Éowyn felt about him he had never known, for at
first she was infatuated with Aragorn, heir to Gondor’s throne,
and then when Faramir had helped her differentiate childish fancy from
true love, she had met his cousin bringing in messages from Cormallen,
where the king had set up camp prior to setting up taking up his kingship
in Minas Tirth.
Faramir had had
no intention of attending the wedding expecting it to be held either
in Rohan or in Dol Amroth, his cousin’s land, but various circumstances
combining together had demanded the presence of a number of noteworthy
people in Minas Tirth at the time set for the wedding, and therefore
Aragorn had insisted that Minas Tirth be allowed to host it, much to
the disappointment of the common folk in both places.
Faramir sighed as
he watched the night sky dispassionately, feeling the gnawing pain in
his heart, a strange aching feeling that somehow transmitted itself
to his temples causing an intense ache. He felt the familiar tensing
of his muscles, despair and desolation overcoming him, as the now common
feeling of loneliness set in with a vengeance, painfully reminding him
yet again of the deaths of his father and brother. He tried desperately
to loosen himself up willing his taut muscles to relax, causing the
ache in his temples to intensify.
From the hall came
the sound of raucous laughter and joyous singing, getting louder by
the minute, the effect of the strongest dwarven ales available in the
middle earth, a dangerously potent drink for one unused to them, such
as elves. The loudest peals of laughter came from a familiar source.
Faramir felt himself tensing once again, as that sound reached his ears.
Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood, he who would soon be setting up an elven
colony in Ithilien near Faramir’s own princedom. He felt angered
at his own irrational apprehension, but could do little to control it.
The sound of Legolas’ voice always invoked that feeling. For when
addressing him, it always held a thin veil of sarcasm, accompanied by
a most sardonic lift of an exquisite elven eyebrow. And the words themselves
dripped with barbs that pained him so much that only his father’s
words had ever cut deeper. To hear himself being contradicted with such
elaborate politeness that other onlookers did not see or feel the accompanying
sneer was pure torture. For the words came from one whom he had admired
at sight. Soft smooth fair skin, golden hair that fell like a sheet,
tall in height and personage, lean yet undoubtedly strong, muscles that
rippled when the hand tightened around the bow he always carried . .
. Faramir could go on endlessly about the other’s virtues.
He knew he felt
strongly for the elf, he had admired other men before, and knew that
it was not uncommon for a man to love another man or even a male elf,
but after his first few encounters with the elf, the severe snubs had
convinced him that in future he must let his head rule. In matters of
the heart he had forever failed. All his life, love was something he
had forever given, but rarely received in return, be it Éowyn or the
young daughter of one of the lords who had consorted with him merely
to get close to his brother, or his father. His brother, Boromir had
tried to make up for his father’s affection but with each progressive
year, it had been glaringly obvious that having to choose between brother
and father set an undue pressure on Boromir, so that he had begun to
seem relieved at having to return to his soldiering duties away from
his family. Boromir had loved him, but they had had little time together
once he had joined the army and even less when Faramir had followed
in his footsteps. And with Legolas he felt the elf held him a poor comparison
to his brother who had been part of the fellowship along with the elf.
Boromir’s valour was oft spoken of by the remaining members. And
Legolas’ first comment on seeing him had been a whisper about
his not being an inch of the warrior Boromir had been.
Love was not something
he would foolishly burn his fingers with again. So, he thrust away his
feelings for Legolas into a far corner of his self, where it weighed
down upon him, like the guilt of being the one to survive, like each
rejection from a loved one. He had no more love to give he told himself,
he had given and given, and none had been returned, so he was devoid
of any to give now. He wrapped his cloak tighter around him, and set
off away from the revelry until he found a small room in a relatively
deserted corner of the citadel. He entered it, and threw his cloak onto
a chair before walking up to the window and looking out at the stars
again.
He leaned forward
against the wall letting his aching forehead rest against the cool stonework,
searching for peace, and finding none, begging his overworked mind to
desist putting undue pressure on itself, when he felt a soft touch on
his shoulder.
“My Lord Steward,”
the mocking tone sent a spiraling wave of pain to his head, and the
smell of Gimli’s dwarven ale reached his nostrils leaving him
nauseous. He remained where he was, unable to move, as the pain reached
a crescendo, until all he was aware of was a loud drumming in his ears.
He felt a hand go around his neck and turn him around, a soft voice
was saying something, and the bindings that knotted his tunic in front
were being removed, exposing his neck and chest to cool air. He was
being held up, for he found he had no strength to stand on his own,
and his hand flew up grabbing at green cloth, soft to touch, his fingers
lightly brushing over the body it encased, and then his other hand came
up suddenly and lightly caressed the soft smooth face of the elf, as
he had often wished to.
The prince of Mirkwood
was certainly under the influence of dwarven ale. He had seen the steward
wander away and had followed him with no definite purpose, but on finding
him in a near faint in his arms, he struggled to regain his senses,
until the caress that electrified his very being. That touch –
it had been all he had expected and more. His breath had caught and
he had let go of the young man in his state of bliss. Faramir buckled
under, his other hand still clenching the tunic, and only natural elven
reflexes had helped Legolas grab him before he hit the floor.
Legolas grabbed
the young steward by his arm, and pulled him back roughly meeting with
little resistance. The man looked wan and tired, and was almost leaning
into his arms, a soft scent from his dark hair wafting up to the elf’s
nostrils as his head dipped slightly against his chest. Legolas gently
placed a finger under Faramir’s chin and raised his head up, taking
in the lines around the mouth and eyes, the circles under his closed
eyes, and the pale neck thrown back now, with the irresistible dip just
above the collar bone that showed up through loosened tunic.
He continued to
hold the man against his body with one arm, and used the other to lightly
finger the exposed collarbone and then the tiny dip in the throat, causing
a soft moan from the man. The neck muscles constricted slightly sending
a thrill coursing through Legolas’ body. He traced an upward path
with his finger lightly dancing across Faramir’s cheek, up to
his forehead, across his eyebrows, and then back again, bringing it
to rest near his mouth. Faramir shuddered and sent out another moan,
his hand tightening its grip on Legolas’ tunic.
Legolas ran his
fingers lightly over the now colourless lips, gently pressing down the
lower lip that so often pouted each time he made a sharp remark. It
had amused him constantly to see the fall in Faramir’s expression
every time he made a cutting reply, the eyes would cloud over slightly,
the cheeks display the faintest hint of a pale pink, and the lower lip
would jut out into a pout that often made the elf wonder what it would
be like to grasp that lip between his teeth and suck at it. The very
first time he had seen him, forgetting that Faramir had been injured
and was still not completely healed, he had taken in the lean frame
and haggard face, and expressed surprise that such a one could be Boromir’s
brother, for of Boromir’s valour and bravery none was in doubt.
Faramir had heard him, and his expression was like that of a puppy kicked
by its master, and etched in the elf’s memory was the sight of
those luscious lips hanging open, and a strange emotion reflected on
the steward’s face. He had therefore taken to contradicting the
young steward often though not unreasonably, and had always maintained
a supercilious tone in his reply, and a superior manner in all their
interactions, knowing it left Faramir flustered and inadequate.
He had tried telling
himself to stop it for he was doing no noble deed by constantly putting
down the man. But it was difficult to break the habit, and besides he
felt he could not do without that pouting expression. He had however
regretted it greatly, some days prior, at the dinner table, when the
lip had trembled, and the eyes had shined brightly before glancing down
at something on the floor. The shoulders had squared rigidly, and it
had taken a while for the head to rise, a composed look once again schooling
the man’s features. Aragorn had been furious, Gimli had disapproved,
even Arwen had been angry, when he had remarked that Faramir was the
wrong person to comment on the war of the ring when he hadn’t
been there. He had felt like kicking himself, but could not bring himself
to apologize to Faramir. Instead the hurt eyes that stared soulfully
at him, stayed imprinted in his mind. How he had wanted to grab him,
crush his mouth, and assure him that he did not hate him.
He tapped lightly
on the slightly open mouth as gasping breaths came through it, warm
air hitting the tips of his long fingers, the mouth widening a little,
the pout being enhanced. He could hold it no longer. He bent down, and
pulling Faramir’s face toward him, bit at that luscious lower
lip, feeling the slight taste of the strawberries that had been served
earlier. He nipped lightly all along the lip, causing another moan.
And then, covered the open mouth with his own, pushing his tongue in,
exploring, while at the same time sending light feathery touches up
and down Faramir’s spinal column. He could feel the man buck under
him, grunting as his mouth blocked the passage of air, and continued
to ruthlessly kiss him.
Faramir’s
eyes flew open as his brain cajoled him back to full consciousness,
screaming for air, and when Legolas finally drew back, he took a shuddering
gasp of breath and looked into those blue eyes, fearing what he might
see. Blue eyes feasted hungrily on him, displaying almost an urgency
as they roved over his lean frame. And then, Legolas suddenly pushed
him against the wall, and bent and licked his neck lightly. Faramir
found himself staring at a pointed ear, and before he realised it, had
started nibbling at that one pointy tip. The reaction was one of joy.
Legolas groaned, and thrust his groin against Faramir’s body pushing
him further against the cool stone wall. Faramir licked the ear and
ran a hand through the golden tresses that were held in place by a clasp.
“Estel!”
The cry was soft,
almost a whisper, but loud enough for Faramir to hear it as it was whispered
in his ear. He stiffened immediately, his senses on a high keel, his
mind screaming. He felt a strange coldness, as he suddenly pushed the
elf off him, not with force, but by simply ducking out from under his
embrace. He felt his cheeks flush, as he picked up his cloak. Then he
felt a hard grip on his shoulder as the elf whirled him around fury
shooting out of the azure eyes.
He thrust the hand
away, his grey eyes reflecting hurt and humiliation, but to Legolas
all that was visible was one who had rejected him. Faramir pushed away
and bolted out of the door as he felt tears sting his eyes. By the time
he was out of the door, his cheeks were wet, and the tears were flowing
unchecked all through his run to his chambers.
Legolas froze for
a moment, until anger gave him wings. He grabbed the half full bottle
he had left on a table and raced after the steward, surprisingly fast
for one completely drunk, and slipped a booted foot through the door
just as the man was about to shut it.
He strode in his
face a mask of barely suppressed anger that seemed to root the steward
to his spot. Taking a long swig from the bottle, he placed it on a desk
before grabbing Faramir by his shoulders and shaking him fiercely.
“You wanted
this! I know you did!” he hissed, the stench of the ale strong
and unimpaired.
“L- Legolas,
p-please - ,” Faramir found himself begging, his tired mind unable
to think, muscles protesting, stabbing pains shooting threw his neck
and head, and as he was shaken viciously, every bone in his body seemed
to rattle.
“I have seen
you watch me! You think I’m blind?” Legolas suddenly struck
out, his hand coming into sudden and forceful impact with the unprotected
face. Faramir gasped in agony, more tears welling in his eyes. And then
another backhanded slap across the other cheek, before he was roughly
thrown onto his bed.
He fell heavily
from the sudden movement, tried to regain his winded breath and then
panicked as an obviously very drunk elf took yet another heavy swig
of dwarven ale, and threw himself on the bed next to him. Strong arms
reached for him, and dragged him closer, long fingers pushed up his
tunic and pulled at the string holding up his leggings.
Chapter
2
Faramir wriggled
around trying to escape, but Legolas had placed one strong arm on his
chest, preventing movement. He tried to thrash his hands and legs, but
nothing moved the elf prince until he had unknotted the string. Faramir
bit back a sharp sob, as Legolas lightly caressed his exposed skin with
his index finger. He drew circles around the navel, and then stretched
a line down the stomach to where the loosened leggings now rested, and
each time his finger would come one tantalizing inch closer. Faramir
cried out again, as the action aroused him, and then angry with himself
flailed his arms uselessly at the elf.
Legolas was fascinated
by the young steward’s skin, it held a smooth textured look to
it, that he sighed dreamily as he ran his finger across it. The sigh
turned to a smirk as he watched the bulge under the leggings grow. Taking
hold of the waistband of the leggings, he gave them a jerk. Faramir
sat up suddenly grabbing at the leggings trying to keep them on. He
was shoved back, and then the elf was straddling him, tugging at his
clothes, lifting his lower body off the bed, so that he could dispose
of the pants as soon as possible. He whipped them off with a flourish,
and then hopped off, watching the naked legs shivering in front of him.
Faramir was trying to cover himself by curling up on his side and placing
his hands over himself. Legolas sat by the silently sobbing steward
a smirk on his face showed him to still be drunk.
He ran a hand over
the steward’s exposed hip and behind, his fingers inching their
way towards the crack. Faramir suddenly rolled away, and tried to get
off the bed. Legolas however would have none of that. He pounced on
Faramir, pinning him down as he lay half on the bed, and half off it.
He yanked him back roughly and rolled him over on to his back, pinning
his arms over his head with one hand, while with the other he reached
for Faramir’s tear-streaked face.
“Ssshh,”
he crooned softly, as terrified grey eyes stared out at him.
He ran a finger
over the lips again. He loved those lips. Faramir gave out a stifled
cry, and tried to jerk away, but to no avail. The hand traced a downward
pattern along his tunic before reaching his exposed groin. Faramir thrashed
his legs and bucked underneath the touch, shuddering as Legolas’
hand caressed the sensitive area playfully. He groaned loudly, a groan
filled with desire that did not escape the elven prince, who smiled,
and suddenly removed the loving hand, inducing a frustrated sob from
the steward.
“You do want
it,” he purred seductively into Faramir’s face, and tightening
his grip on his hands, ruthlessly attacked the steward’s lips
with his mouth. He probed and bit hard, slamming his tongue around the
mouth. He released Faramir’s hands, and grabbing the steward’s
neck in both arms, lifted the unresisting man all the while relentlessly
kissing him.
Faramir tried to
resist but found himself simply plunging deep into a feeling he had
never known before. His mind screamed at him to move away, reminding
of the hurt that would follow if he let himself be captivated by desire.
But his body refused to obey. It screamed and screamed louder than the
voice in his head drowning it out, and pushed him closer into the elven
prince’s ruthless kiss. He responded with a joy he had never felt
before.
The elf suddenly
pushed him back onto the bed and ground his body down upon him, seductively
pressing down on his groin, all the while attacking with his mouth.
His tunic got pushed upward exposing his bare body to the rough cloth
covering Legolas, and the feeling induced an agonizing sense of upliftment
in him. Faramir felt he would explode, as the elf suddenly pulled away
and stared into his face, still pressing down on him, groin touching
groin, with just the barrier of Legolas’ clothes between them.
He stared into the
azure depths of those eyes, his mind still in a whirl after the assault.
Legolas , breath coming in small gasps, as his chest heaved painfully
up and down, and his body screamed for more. He grabbed at Legolas’
arms suddenly as he ground down on him again.
Legolas purred again,
and Faramir closed his eyes in satisfaction letting the ecstasy of the
elf’s nearness take over him.
But, just as suddenly
as it had started, it ended. Legolas heaved himself off, and stood up,
looking down at the steward with something like amusement in his eyes.
Faramir felt a derisive gaze rest on him, and looked at himself. Hair
in disarray, face flushed unbecomingly, his tunic bunched around his
waist, and his own body betraying him, as he looked down at his groin.
He curled up with a groan trying to control the throbbing erection.
“Did you like
that?” Legolas smirked.
Faramir’s
only response was a groan.
“You ran from
me,” Legolas hissed, grabbing a handful of the steward’s
hair, “No one ever runs from me, they come to me, all of them
come to me, even your king, when he was younger came to me for comfort
once, before he found Arwen.”
“Even your
brother once came to me,” he purred, “But he was drunk and
exhausted and I would not take advantage of that. But you, you ran from
me! And you are not even half the man he was.”
The words were spat
out with anger flashing from the blue eyes, cold as ice. The grip on
the hair tightened causing tiny spikes of pain to race through Faramir’s
head. A sharp sob escaped through dry lips, as the words cut like never
before.
“I will show
you why no one runs from me,” Legolas said savagely, as he tugged
at the dark hair. Faramir howled as a sharp pain broke out in his head.
He felt himself pulled forward again, and a resounding slap hit his
already abused face once again.
“Did you hear
me?” alcohol reeked from the elf’s breath.
Legolas reached
out a hand out, and pushed him on to his stomach suddenly. A rustling
sound of clothing being removed reached his ears.
Faramir writhed
underneath the one hand that held him in place, “What -? No! Legolas,
please no,” he heard himself screaming, “I have never before
– ”
“You want
me, do you not?” Legolas interrupted him.
“Yes,”
it was the slightest whisper, and Faramir repeated it over and over
again.
He was cut off by
a sudden pain as a finger ruthlessly entered him, followed by a second.
It was as far as
he got, for the next second, pain erupted, pain, as he’d never
felt before. It ripped through his very being, causing him to scream,
and he tried to will himself into slipping into nothingness but could
not, as the agony kept him awake and made itself felt with startling
clarity.
*You wanted this,*
his mind hissed at him, *you asked for it, now enjoy it, you heeded
not yourself, you would not pull away in time!*
But he had not wanted
that while Legolas entered him, the only word that should come again
and again out of the elf prince’s lips be “Estel.”
Chapter
3
Legolas awoke to
the feel of something soft underneath him, his head throbbing, his mouth
dry, and the overall feeling was not a happy one. He groaned cursing
Gimli. It had to be his ale of course, each time Legolas drank it, he
did something stupid, and he wondered idly what it was he’d one
this time.
As long as he hadn’t
jumped into the fountain in the courtyard fully clothed, he shuddered
to himself, and lowered his head again back on the pillow…
… and sat
up almost immediately, eyes flying open.
He gasped at the
sight under him. He was lying in his tunic… atop the steward of
Gondor. He backed away, almost falling off the bed, and took in the
sight, horrified. Faramir lay half on and half off the bed, his head
dangling down, eyes shut tight against a white face, mouth slightly
open, cheeks covered in dark bruises, and lips swollen. His hair was
all mussed up, and the clothes … *the clothes, * Legolas thought
to himself, his horror increasing as he took in the half-naked, bleeding
body.
The tunic lay bunched
around the waist, the lower body bare and exposed and showing up clearly
against white sheets, was a trail of blood between the legs.
He reached out shocked;
a tentative hand to touch the figure underneath and assure himself it
was real and no apparition.
Faramir did not
respond to the touch. Legolas collected himself, and then tenderly picking
up the steward’s body laid him carefully on the bed on his back,
his own eyes filling up as he saw the young man’s condition. The
startling memories of the prior night flooded back to him, and he felt
an overwhelming feeling of shame course over him.
“Elbereth,
what have I done?” he cried out softly, anguish and pain lacing
his voice.
“Faramir,”
he whispered softly to the steward, who lay there still and prone, the
only sign of movement the small rise and fall of his chest.
He bit back a loud
sob, and grabbing a nearby jug of water, tore a piece of cloth off the
sheet, and began to clean up the man. Faramir moaned as his hand flew
over the bruised sections of his face and lower body, and his eyes flew
open.
They stared wearily
out at Legolas.
“Faramir,”
Legolas started brokenly.
A small tear rolled
down the steward’s cheek, but he made no attempt to move.
“I am sorry,”
Legolas whispered, softly touching the other’s cheek and wiping
the tear away, “did I hurt you very badly?”
Faramir shook his
head.
Legolas grabbed
him suddenly and embraced him fiercely.
Faramir just lay
in his arms, too spent to think clearly, if at all.
“My poor dear
one,” Legolas whispered, “You should not have let me! I
did not want for it to be like this.”
He held the slight
body in his arms. Still to recover fully from his wound in the war,
Faramir was as yet in the process of regaining his lost weight.
Now he lay in the
strong arms, blinking back tears as he remembered the words Legolas
had said to him last night. He wished he had the strength to pull away
from the man who had humiliated him verbally, but could not. His heart
would not agree. He felt himself being lowered back on the bed, and
the wet cloth was again cleaning him up.
A hand reached for
his tunic, and somewhere his befuddled mind raised a protest and told
him the prince must not be allowed to see – but his body was too
tired. The tunic rose, the cloth touched his chest, and calmed him down,
he was turned onto his stomach, and then he heard the sharp gasp.
“Valar! What
are these scars?”
The gasp brought
him back to reality, and shame made him go red all over. He squirmed
out of the elf’s grasp, tears coursing down his eyes, and grasped
at the robe lying near his bed. He stared wild eyed at the elf, and
a sob escaped his throat, as he backed off the bed, and pulling on the
robe, raced out of the door before Legolas could come out of his shock
and react.
Chapter
4
Legolas stood rooted
in shock, still seeing in his mind the myriad scars that had coated
the steward’s back, old scars but still visible enough to indicate
the harshness of the wounds they must have once caused.
*Who could have
- ?*
He suddenly realised
that he should find Faramir and pulling on his clothes, raced out of
the door trying to decipher where the steward might have taken off.
Faramir just ran,
stumbling over every now and then, as the robe was long and certainly
not meant for running in. But to him none of that mattered, he just
wanted to get away. He stumbled through long winding corridors, dodging
the sudden turns, as he wandered through the parts of the citadel that
were no longer in use. His room was in one of the older wings away from
the hustle and bustle of the wing where the others stayed. It suited
him, for he knew he would be leaving for Ithilien soon. He ignored the
pain coursing through his body and kept moving.
He panted as he
reached the room, which had always been his refuge. After each beating,
this was where he came to recover. The beatings – he shuddered
as old memories came flooding back, the terrible ones that he’d
tried to repress, to shut out. Now Legolas would guess, and that would
be one more thing for him to humiliate him with.
For in his terrible
state he had heard none of the concern in the elf’s voice. All
he had heard was horror, and something else, revulsion?
Legolas walked through
the corridors, silently for the day was yet to break, and all seemed
asleep, save a few servants who were up early. He could hear them in
the corridor to the left.
“The king
is indeed a good man, the wedding was beautiful,” one, a woman
was sighing.
“Aye,”
grunted a male voice, “For the council did fear for the city after
the death of Lord Denethor.”
“Why?”
came a piping voice, “Lord Faramir is here isn’t he?”
A series of derisive
grunts came in response.
“You know
what the council says of Lord Faramir? He is no warrior, he is just
a weakling!”
“Aye, look
how tired he looks all the while, Lord Boromir was always energetic
and getting things done, and a good soldier. Lord Faramir lost us the
Pelennor, do not forget!”
Legolas gritted
his teeth angrily, and strode down the hallway. He had seen the attitude
of the White City’s council towards their new steward, a reflection,
he had been told, of the old days when Faramir’s advice was never
heeded by his father.
The servants scattered
from their huddle at his sight, and went on with their duties. He ignored
them, knowing they would only repeat what they heard from others, but
it angered him to hear the rumors. While he himself would have agreed
that Faramir was not like Boromir in terms of physical strength, especially
after his injury, there was no doubting his tactical brilliance and
intelligence.
Denethor! Legolas
suddenly felt a sickening wrench in his gut. He knew somehow how those
scars came to be. He remembered hearing someone say that Boromir had
been the favoured son.
He stopped suddenly
outside one of the small doors leading into the vast libraries housed
in the citadel. It stood slightly ajar, a sign that someone had used
it. His surmise was proven right at the sight of the steward huddled
between two shelves, his knees pulled up to his chest, head resting
on them.
He knelt in front
of the figure, “Faramir,” his voice was soft as though speaking
to a child.
The head jerked
up suddenly, fear lining those beautiful grey eyes. Tears spilled over,
and the frightened young man tried to inch away from the elf, but found
he had nowhere to go. He whimpered unhappily.
Legolas reached
out, his heart wrenching at the sight of the look on a face so young,
eyes so soulful, and with so much pain apparent in them. He pulled the
man into his arms, and lightly brushed the top of the dark head with
his lips.
“It is all
right, young one, I am here,” he muttered softly in elvish.
He could feel the
tears soaking into his clothes, and he tightened his hold on the now
trembling man in his arms.
Faramir ached all
over, physically and mentally. He was sore from rough handling and he
had not yet forgotten that while he had realised how deep his desire
for Legolas ran, the elf himself had revealed *his* deepest desire –
and it hadn’t been him. And on top of it all, he kept remembering
the beatings.
The time his father
had lashed him for accidentally scaring Boromir’s horse, and causing
him to take a fall. Boromir had hurt his wrist, but it was a very light
injury. Denethor’s hand that day had not been. Faramir had barely
been able to stand when he’d finished. Boromir had never learnt
since he’d been recovering from his own injury.
The time he had
barged accidentally into his father in the hallway, and Denethor having
just received news that his elder son and his men were besieged by orcs
near Osgiliath and needed reinforcements, had taken out his frustration
on him. He had dragged his younger son into his study, and had slapped
him so hard that he had fallen to the floor. He remembered being dragged
up by his hair and slapped over and over again till he was too dizzy
to care.
What had followed
remained a blur, the biggest whip Denethor owned had fallen innumerable
times till his back was streaked with blood, and even then it had not
stopped. His father had actually kicked him like he was kicking a dog.
“Get out of
my sight, you worthless boy!” Denethor had cursed, with each kick
to his ribs. Faramir had dragged himself over to his room, where he’d
lain for many hours, insensible. When he awoke, he ministered to his
injuries as best as he could with a salve that he kept a permanent store
of, having no desire to go to the healer. Faramir had been fifteen then,
a gangly youth, all skin and bones, and none of the good looks his brother
possessed, and was often the butt of many a joke among the healer’s
young assistants all of whom were in great awe of his brother. The rudimentary
healing ensured that scars had remained for many years. Even now, though
many scars had disappeared there were still enough to cause concern.
The beatings had
stopped after that, probably because he also had taken up soldiering
duties and stayed away from the city as much as possible, but the damage
had been done. Whenever he came back, he spent most of his time in the
library away from his father’s sight.
He heard his name
being called out faintly and stared up, half scared, into blue eyes.
In his half dazed state he tried to move away, but could not. He felt
his cheeks turn wet, and then arms reached for him, and he fell into
them brokenly, his head pounding non-stop, his body screaming for comfort.
He was shivering
now, and his arms were wrapped around the back of the elf, taking comfort
in the feel of the well-toned body, as his own hands felt limp as a
sock.
Even when Legolas
pulled away slowly, he kept his hands around him, shivering all the
while, tears streaming down his face, clouding his vision. He felt strong
hands pull him into their loving embrace, and a soft voice in his ear.
“What is it,
love? Why do you cry so?” came the worried query.
He sobbed harder,
leaning against the elf’s chest, holding onto him, desperately
grabbing at him, as he felt an overwhelming blackness descend upon him.
Chapter
5
Legolas clutched
the young man around him, patting the dark head softly, and felt the
fingers clench around his clothes.
“Ssh, dear
one, it’s all right, I am here. Faramir?” he nudged the
unconscious body in his arms.
“Faramir?
Are you all right?”
Putting a hand up
to the other’s bruised cheek, he was shocked to note the warmth
radiating off it. And then he realised that Faramir was wearing little
but a thin robe, and it was cold. He cursed himself for forgetting the
other would feel the cold more than him and be affected worse by it.
Scooping up the
limp body with ease he walked out towards the steward’s room.
Faramir felt light and easy to carry, causing Legolas to frown softly.
The sight of a listless young man picking desultorily at his meals hit
him with a blinding clarity. Not for the first time that day, he cursed
himself for adding to Faramir’s worries. He quite distinctly remembered
Aragorn once expressing worry over his steward’s health, saying
he was quite sure that the man was yet to recover from the loss of his
family, and that his injuries still bothered him at times.
When he reached
Faramir’s room, he promptly laid the man down on the bed, and
felt his forehead again. It was still warm. Reaching a hand under the
robe, he frowned as he felt the heat. He would have to do something
to make him more comfortable. Call the healers perhaps. But, he would
first try reviving him.
Grabbing the cloth
he’d used earlier, he got some fresh water, and began wiping the
man’s face with it. Faramir sighed and wriggled a little trying
to avoid the icy cold touch.
“Ssh, love,
let me do this,” Legolas whispered.
He opened the bindings
holding the robe, and wiped the hot torso with the cloth, his hand stopping
as it reached the scar on the shoulder that had been caused by a southron
dart and left the young man in a fever that only Aragorn had been able
to cure him of. The scar was still there, ugly and red. Faramir still
had problems with that hand sometimes, Legolas knew, some days he had
seen him openly favour his left hand when he thought no one was looking.
Faramir moved again,
and then started muttering something. Legolas leaned forward thinking
he was awakening and listened with growing anger to the words that tripped
out.
“Father! No,
please don’t hit me, father! I am sorry, father, please, please,
no.”
The soft cries continued,
“No, please nooo!”
The elf cursed himself
once again. To have to have added to the nightmares!
“Faramir,”
he whispered brokenly, his eyes tearing up at the sight of the anguished
figure lying on the bed, “I am sorry, Faramir, will you ever forgive
me?”
“Oh love,”
he cried softly, grabbing the steward’s hand and stroking his
cheek, wincing when he saw the bruises again.
Faramir continued
to moan softly, he was obviously not just fevered but also in pain from
everything he had been through. He was shivering sporadically, so Legolas
tied up the bindings on the robe again, and then grabbing the blankets
on the bed, covered him with them. He held him in his arms tight and
snug, resting the other’s head on his shoulder, soft dark hair
brushing his neck and chin. He gently rubbed his hand across Faramir’s
back and continued making small crooning noises.
It took a while
but he managed to calm him down so that Faramir now lay quietly in his
arms, his breathing soft and slightly raspy, but also a little warm.
The elf gave him a long look. The face had relaxed somewhat now, and
the lines stood out clearly, cheeks pale, lips almost bloodless, circles
starting off under the eyes. And a sadness that showed up on the young
face, even in sleep. Legolas bent his face and brushed his lips against
the soft hair, wondering how he could have been so blind to the desperation
on the other’s face for all these days.
He had realised
quite early that he was attracted to the young steward, but had realised
the extent of his feelings only recently. For the last few weeks, he
had actively looked out for Faramir whenever he entered a room, and
had secretly observed his lithe movements, listened to his soft quiet
voice that was rarely heard but when it was, uttered words of startling
depth and clarity. And he had begun to realise that in his own way Faramir
was beautiful. The grey eyes tinged with a sadness and a depth that
was said to exist only among the elven kind, the light frame, a carriage
that indicated he was a good warrior, and beautiful hands that were
invariably held out to give or involved in toil. And from what little
he could remember of his drunken stupor last night, he had a beautiful
body too. He remembered the pale, smooth skin. Unconsciously he tightened
his grip around the other’s waist feeling his own fingers clench
around the flat stomach, and his hand began to inch downwards, slowly
inexorably downwards… he controlled himself just in time.
“What is it
about you, that I must touch you, feel you, kiss you, love you, whenever
I see you? You sit there so quiet and thoughtful, hiding away your pains.
You drive yourself too hard,” he whispered to the insensible figure,
looking at the calluses in the palm. He held Faramir’s hand in
one of his and squeezed it gently. Faramir murmured something softly,
and then began to stir.
Legolas picked up
the wet cloth and once again began wiping the slightly flushed face
with it, all the while softly encouraging him to open his eyes. Grey
eyes stared dully out at his own blue ones.
“You fainted.
Are you feeling better now? Or will you have me call a healer?”
the elf prince asked him tenderly.
Faramir shook his
head faintly, “No, do not bother the healers, I will be all right,
I just felt a little weak.”
“When did
you last eat?”
“Yester morn.”
“And not after
that?” Legolas demanded.
“Aragorn
had some correspondence to be finished, and I did not notice the time,
but it does not matter. I was not hungry.”
“You do not
look after yourself, at all. You have lost much weight and strength.
Do you not care?”
“No.”
“Faramir!
Do not say that! You are ill.”
Faramir sighed.
He was so tired, and the elf had to keep speaking. It was giving him
a headache. He wanted to get up, go away from him, go away from everyone,
but he was so tired, and Legolas’ arms felt so strong about him.
He liked the embrace but hated himself for liking it. He loved Legolas,
he realised that, but then Legolas didn’t love him, and it was
all going to happen all over again. The pain of rejection. Would he
never be free of it?
“I will be
fine now. You can go back to your room if you please. I am sorry to
have troubled you so much.” He said stiffly, not raising himself
from the other’s arms, but at the same time not looking up at
the other.
*If I look up, I
will see scorn and derision at my weakness. All these years of weakness.
Now I have proved him right. I am not half the man Boromir was. I cannot
take it, not again, I cannot. He loves another.*
He felt Legolas
stiffen and waited with muted breath for the arms to unwrap themselves
and leave him to his solitude and misery once again. But they stayed
around him.
“Why do you
wish me to leave?” there was a strange tone in the other’s
voice, “I hurt you, is that why?” He kept his hand around
the man too, after all Faramir had not moved, why should he? He wanted
nothing more than to hold him in his arms as long as possible, to comfort
his weary mind, and to love him.
He hugged him tighter,
feeling the man stiffen under him.
“You can leave
now, the others will be searching for you.”
“At this hour?”
Legolas said puzzled looking towards the window, sunrise is an hour
away yet, and everyone lies in drunken stupour everywhere. And I will
stay here and look after you,” Legolas declared.
“I know you
have other things to do,” Faramir insisted, flinching as the elf
pushed his dark hair off his face.
“All I have
to do,” Legolas said tenderly, “ is look after you, for
you are ailing. And I fear I may have hurt you earlier. I should not
have… “
“No, you asked
me before – before… , and I said yes… and …
,” he gulped a little and pulled himself out of the elf’s
embrace suddenly. He sat cross-legged on the rumpled sheets and then
pushing away the blankets, swung his legs down. He looked down at himself,
noting the dark bruises on his wrist, sensing the bruises that dotted
his body. He pushed himself unsteadily up, ignoring the helping arm
proffered by Legolas. He felt a wave of dizziness and nausea assail
him but somehow managed to control it. When he stood erect finally,
he almost fell again, as pain ripped through his lower body.
“I did not
want you like that,” Legolas said brokenly.
“No, you did
not want me under you, did you?” Faramir could not stop the words
from leaving his mouth, “you wanted the king, and you could not
have him, so you settled for the first one you came across. And, and
I have loved you many days but from afar for compared to Elessar I am
but nothing.” And with that Faramir unsteadily walked away from
the elf’s shocked expression, and outstretched arms.
Chapter
6
Legolas’ mind
went into a whirl at those words. First, Faramir loved him. Second -
*Aragorn! *
*Valar! That was
eons ago now, when Aragorn had been young and depressed at the knowledge
of his true identity. He had sought succour and Legolas had been the
one to provide it, for he had held him very dear. And the first time
they had both been drunk. That had not been dwarven ale though, it had
been ale from a pub in a small village inhabited by humans, near Imaldris.
*These stupid ales!
Why do I not learn to avoid them entirely? When the wine from Mirkwood
tastes so good, why do I drink these foul things my friends fill themselves
with? *
And then Estel had
met Arwen, and found his true love, and Legolas had looked on Aragorn
quite simply as one enamoured by him. Legolas had always incited amorous
feelings in those who beheld him, and Estel had been no exception. They
had initially thought themselves in love but had soon realised that
all they had shared was few nights of passion waiting to be unleashed.
Then why had he remembered him so while making love to the only one
who had a place in his heart?
He had bedded others,
elves naturally, but as a romp, a fact clear to both parties, neither
putting their hearts into it, for their lives were long, and much lay
to be done. But after Estel, he realised, he had had no one. Mirkwood
had faced increasing threats from the darkness assailing Middle Earth,
and he had a duty to do. And a few fifty odd years were nothing to one
of his kind. It had been the time for war and action not love.
He tried to remember
what it had been like under the trees in a clearing near the village
when he had lain with the future king but could not. He tried to remember
the feel of Aragorn’s mouth in his mouth, and found he could not
even recall what his dear friend’s mouth looked like unless he
actually thought about it. And what he recalled was his mouth as of
now, with lines, around it, weathered lips, teeth yellowed by that insufferable
pipeweed he always smoked. Estel’s mouth could never have been
like that at twenty! And the body he saw was of Aragorn, a kingly warrior’s,
not of an unhappy young man named Estel. And none of these visions filled
him with love as he now came to know it. They filled him with liking,
yes, for Estel was a truly dear friend, with a love born out of friendship
and loyalty. But not love for the sake of love.
No, when his heart
filled up with that strange emotion he was now beginning to recognise,
when he felt nothing else mattered as long as his deepest fondest desire
was with him, when that desire coursed through his veins like hot metal,
he saw his true love.
He saw beautifully
sculpted lips that curved down in sadness, pouting lips that made him
shiver, a lean figure, but one of a warrior, and grey eyes that held
a wisdom rarely seen in his kind and seen more among the Eldar race.
Grey orbs tinged with pain and sorrow.
He loved Faramir,
now if only he could convince him of that!
Again he went hunting
for the man. His search finally brought him to the cool environs of
one of the gardens. Standing near the wall that looking out over the
city and beyond to the fields of Pelennor, watching the lightening sky,
stood the one he sought.
“Faramir?”
Faramir’s
mind was in turmoil. When he had left his room he had been unhappy and
angry. Now after walking slowly around the citadel, he had finally reached
the garden in search of peace and quiet. Ignoring the early morning
chill, he stood in his thin robe, watching the sky.
Legolas made him
feel like no other had done before. A simple touch from the elf was
enough to send him into ecstasy. Those lips on his – the thought
was overwhelming. How much he’d love for Legolas to kiss him.
To take him in his arms, to take him – as a lover should not as
a drunk with no control . The humiliating experience of ending up in
a drunken elf’s bed for the night still weighed on him.
To be made love
to by a man for the first time – in a manner more fitting one
from a brothel. He had been taken by surprise, with no preparation.
And to hear another’s name on your beloved’s lips. He was
simply an outlet for the elf to take out his pent-up frustration. The
first person he’d come across.
One sudden, brutal
thrust and then he’d thought he’d explode from the pain.
He was so sore he could not sit at all. His gait had been awkward as
his body began to resist his restlessness. Pain constantly reverberated
through his body with every move as if to remind him of his humiliating
and abject surrender. He needed sleep, most of all he needed rest, but
he would not do that. He would not succumb to such weaknesses after
making a fool of himself in front of the elf. Such a fool. Seduced by
an elf whose breath had reeked of ale.
*But you wanted
it. * his heart screamed at him. *And you want more. Go back to him.
He’ll make love to you. He’ll kiss you. He’ll caress
you with those long fingers of his, and cause you untold ecstasy merely
by being near you. *
*And then he’ll
leave you. *his mind shouted back, *He’ll leave you lying in the
corner, discard you after he’s used you, and then you’ll
cry again. Pathetic useless fool. Forget him!*
Faramir gave a ragged
sob, and clutched at the wall as if seeking an answer of some sort.
What was he to do. Now that he had been with Legolas once, he would
never forget it. He wanted more, much more. He wanted to always be near
Legolas drink in his sight. But what when he left? Should he live for
now, the present, or for the future? Live for the exhilaration of Legolas’
touch, to revel in being made love to that beautiful creature.
Go back to him while
he was still under the influence of that accursed ale for there was
no other way Legolas could want him.
The elf was so good
looking, so perfect, so brave and strong, one of the nine of the famed
fellowship, one of those who fought in the war. What could he see in
a steward who had no duty now that the king was here, and one with an
ugly scarred body, weak and pathetic, unable to defend himself, even
from his own heart, one who had fallen in the field of battle. One who
had let his brother go in his stead to face untold danger that had proven
fatal. One who by falling in battle had made his father kill himself.
He was worthless. Why would an elf want him? Why would an elf like Prince
Legolas of Mirkwood want him?
He should be grateful
to the ale for giving him that opportunity, once the influence wore
away, he would be thrown away like an old sock. He could just picture
the horror on Legolas’ face when he would regain his sobriety
and realise he had wasted his time on him. And the derision, the scorn,
and the arrogance of having forced himself upon Faramir. And that Faramir
wanted him.
No! He must not
give in.
*I will not give
in. I will avoid him, and try to forget what it felt like. I must. I
must forget. I must. *
“Faramir,”
Leoglas said a little apprehensively, seating himself on a bench in
the garden.
The steward turned
around at the sudden sound, grey eyes bright with unshed tears. Seeing
Legolas, he stiffened and then made as if to move, then apparently changed
his mind, and stood resolutely at the wall his lips set. He met the
elf’s blue eyes seemingly calmly, but to one of the Eldar race
the turmoil inside was apparent.
Legolas patted the
place next to him, only to flush a little as Faramir stiffened yet again,
and refused, a look of pain crossing his features, a slight tremble
passing through his body. Legolas had left him in no position to sit
on a hard cold stone bench. So, the elf arose, and stood next to his
beloved at the wall, hidden from all eyes by the trees in the garden.
“You said
you loved me?” he asked the steward abruptly.
There was no response.
Over the horizon, a streak of pale light heralded the beginning of the
sun’s journey. Legolas sighed, “Estel and I – we –
it was many years ago,” he started abruptly.
Faramir’s
resolve broke. He simply sank to the ground his head buried in his hands
as the thoughts tumbled through his head.
*What do I do? How
will I live knowing I can never have him? *
“What do I
do?” he sobbed aloud.
“Listen to
me,” a soft and gentle voice commanded him. He lifted his head
and glanced up.
Legolas was standing
right next to him now.
“I love you,”
the elf told him.
Faramir shook his
head tiredly, “It is not you that speaks, it is the ale.”
Legolas shook his
head impatiently, “Nay, that wore off many eons ago. It is I who
speak, and I tell you, Faramir of Gondor, that I love you more than
anything else on Middle Earth. “
“You called
for the king,” Faramir repeated, “Twice.” You kissed
me and thought you were kissing Elessar, you made love to me,”
he gulped as he uttered the words, even saying that sent a shiver down
his spine, “you – you made lo – love to me, but called
for Elessar.”
“No, Faramir,
it is true Estel and I shared a bed many years ago, but it was only
a union of our bodies, not of our hearts. It was borne out of need,
not love. Estel is no more than a memory to me now and I to him. If
I call for him, it is because of that memory, the only memory I have
of giving into passion in many years. I see no other reason. He means
nothing but a faded page from days long past. It is over now. My love
is for you and only you.”
Faramir shook his
head again, “You cannot love me, I am not worthy of even your
slightest attention. It is the king you love, and he deserves it, for
he is good and lordly and handsome and brave, and I am none of these.”
“Faramir!”
Legolas admonished, “I beseech you, listen to me, you are all
of that and more. You are gentle and kind, and deserve all the love
I can give you. It is I who am not worthy of your love for me, after
the things I have done to you.”
“I have said
much to you that I should not have, I have hit you and hurt you,”
he raised a hand to the other’s bruised face, slowly so that he
would not scare him away, “I have treated you shabbily and what
I did last night was unpardonable. I treated you without respect and
if for that you never want to see me again, I will understand, but I
beg of you, do not do that, for I will not be able to bear the thought
of not seeing you again!”
Tears rolled down
the steward’s face, and Leoglas brushed them away, his own eyes
tearing up as his heart tore at the sight of his love’s distraught
face.
“When I ask
to see the face of my heart’s desire, it is you I see,”
he whispered, “it is your grey eyes filled with all the kindness
and gentleness in this world that I see, it is your face that I wish
to caress, your lips I want in mine.”
“Do you not
love me as you said?” Legolas asked him tenderly, tracing one
long finger along his lips.
“My heart
tells me I do, but my head tells me to stay away from love,” Faramir
whispered.
Legolas pushed his
finger in a little, and continued exploring Faramir’s lips with
it.
“Then listen
to your heart, dearest. I love you Faramir, can you not see that?”
“Do not toy
with me so, I beg of you, my prince, I can take it no longer,”
Faramir said brokenly.
“I do not
toy with you,” Legolas took the steward’s troubled face
in his hands and stared straight into his eyes, “You have been
hurt much, and hurt badly all these years, and I have only hurt you
more, but it was only because I knew not how you would feel. Oh love,
it is fear of your rejection that forced me to play about like I did.
I do love you. Can you not see that?”
“What is love?”
Faramir said unhappily, “I fear I do not know it. They say my
father loved me for he tried to kill me so I would die with him. But
if he loved me, why did he slight me so? I thought Éowyn loved me but
she loved another, and when I thought you loved me, you ask for Elessar.
What do I do?” he wailed out suddenly.
“My heart
feels empty, I am afraid, I do not know, Legolas, I do not know what
I wish, except to sleep and wake no more. Oh Legolas, this misery claws
at me very day, and I feel I can face it no longer. What do I do? I
wish not to live, not to face another day.”
“No, Faramir,
do not even speak so even in jest,” Legolas cried out desperately,
yearning to envelope the forlorn looking man in his arms and comfort
him, but scared that he may move away.
“I have no
strength left,” Faramir continued his voice laced with desperation,
“I am tired, Legolas, so tired, my head aches constantly, and
nightmares plague my sleep everyday.”
“Oh Faramir,”
Leoglas sighed softly, putting out a hand and touching the other’s
shoulder with it, relieved when he did not move away from the touch,
“you are tired for you do not rest. Your headaches come from overwork
and lack of sleep. As for your nightmares, I know not what cause them
but I can guess.”
He put his arm around
the shaking shoulder of the man and pulled his head close to his chest.
“And if I can do anything to drive away those nightmares I will,”
he said resting his cheek against the soft hair of the other’s
head. Faramir sighed into his shoulder.
“Anything,
I will not see you suffer any more. I love you.”
“No, don’t
say that, do not say you love me.” He could feel the wetness of
the other’s tears seeping into his clothes.
“Why my love,
why not?”
“Do not, for
all who say so, leave me. Do not leave me,” he sobbed.
“I will never
leave you,” Legolas promised him.
*No, it is you who
will leave me for you are mortal, and then I will go to the undying
lands in sorrow, * he thought sadly.
“I will always
be here, and you will never be hurt again, never again.”
Faramir looked up,
interlocking his eyes with the elf’s blue orbs, and stared back
silently, taking in the love he saw shining out pure and unadulterated.
His heart grew light as he realised that Legolas was not looking at
him with scorn but with love.
Legolas looked into
the grey eyes, and he felt once again the strange constriction in his
heart. He could drown in those grey depths. Smiling down at Faramir,
he hugged him tight; and realized belatedly that the man seemed cold,
seeing that he was protected only by thin cloth.
“You are cold,
let us go inside,” he said, taking off his cloak and wrapping
him in it. He led Faramir back towards the building, still quiet and
peaceful. He doubted if anyone other than a few servants would be seen
around till evening. His own room was nearby, as he wanted to be near
the trees in the garden.
“Come, I will
take you back to your room.”
“Can I not
stay here awhile? The trees soothe my heart,” Faramir said wearily.
“No, it is
cold. But if you like, you can stay in my chambers, for my balcony overlooks
this garden,” he led the weary man inside, and then steered him
towards a cushioned chair in the balcony. He lightly kneaded the taut
muscles on the other’s shoulder and back, until the man slumped
limply against him.
“Stay here,”
he said lowering him onto the cushions, “you seem to be hurting
still, I will get you some herbs to dull it.”
When he returned
Faramir was sprawled out on the chair, eyes closed, breathing evened
out, and the look on his sleeping visage was one of a man at ease with
himself. Legolas smiled, and stooping down, picked up the sleeping man,
and carried him inside, laid him upon the bed, near the open window
through which floated in the smells and sounds of the garden. He covered
him up, smoothed a few stray hairs away, and lightly brushed the lips
with his own, before laying himself down on the other side. Softly,
he hummed the strains of an old elvish ballad of true love, smiling
as Faramir’s mouth curved in a small smile in his sleep, as the
lilting voice reached through to his subconscious mind.
Chapter
7
When Legolas awoke
a few hours later, the sun was up and the steward was sitting on a chair
by his bed watching him, a slight hint of apprehension in his face.
Their eyes locked and he smiled lovingly at the young man, who in turn
relaxed visibly. Any sign of worry or fear left his face, and he smiled
back, a genuine smile from deep within. He arose from his chair, and
sat by Legolas on the bed, and placed a finger on the topmost binding
of his tunic. Legolas stared at him incredulously, as he uncurled it
with his finger, and began pulling it out, exposing the V of his throat
and torso.
“Faramir!”
Legolas rasped out as the steward ran his finger lightly across his
exposed skin, setting up a tingling feeling. He moaned at the touch,
and licked at his dry lips in anticipation. More bindings came off,
and soon his chest was exposed to the cool, fresh air blowing in from
outside. Faramir lightly ran a hand over his torso, exclaiming at the
smoothness of the fair skin.
“You are beautiful,”
he gasped at the elf. He grasped at his leggings, and then looked to
the elf’s eyes as if seeking permission. Legolas nodded, and lifted
himself up slightly as Faramir pulled them off. Faramir stared at him
and repeated huskily, “So beautiful.”
Bending down, he
began to kiss Legolas all over his body. He nipped playfully at the
pointed ears, licked his cheek, showered kisses on his neck and then
licked at his throat. Legolas simply sighed in pleasure, and lay limp
and unresisting under the other’s ministrations. The man sucked
at his nipples, tugging them lightly, causing him to moan loudly, a
kiss on his navel made him smile, and then the hand wrapped around his
shaft sent another cry out of his throat. Faramir rubbed his hands up
and down it, causing Legolas to cry out again. Faramir took him in his
mouth, uncertainly at first but when Legolas voiced his pleasure, he
set at it with gusto and for the next few minutes Legolas was in a state
of rapture he had not experienced in a very long time.
He grabbed Faramir’s
shoulders and gripped them tightly shuddering all along, his body reacting
with joy to the caresses and kisses of his lover. He came screaming
out the steward’s name over and over again.
“Faramir!”
When it was over
they lay in each other’s arms.
Legolas kissed Faramir
lightly on his lips, “You were wonderful.”
Faramir smiled shyly,
“Will you not return the pleasure?”
Legolas grinned
broadly, and reached for the young man’s robe to pull it off.
Faramir stopped him, “Will you make love to me as you did last
night?” he asked. Seeing the apprehension in the elf’s eyes,
he explained, “I did want it, but - but - I was not sure you did.
Will you make love to me again, so I can feel that wonderful feeling
again?”
Legolas shook his
head, “Not as last night, I was too rough. You are still hurt.
We must wait till you have recovered. And then I will be gentle.”
“I like you
rough,” Faramir teased, “My big bad elf.”
“My little
human,” Legolas teased back, as he pulled Faramir’s robe
off. Roving his eyes over the now naked body, he amended it, “My
beautiful little human.”
“You are so
lovely,” he gasped, as Faramir flushed under his scrutiny, “I
could stare at you forever,” he whispered huskily, as he began
kissing him. Faramir moaned at the tender touch, squealing in delight
when nipped at his neck. He was ticklish and Legolas soon realised that
and every now and then gave the young man a small tickle that would
set him off giggling, and would arouse the elf even further.
“Please,”
Faramir finally groaned unable to hold back any longer. So Legolas took
him in his mouth and gave Faramir the undiluted pleasure he himself
had just experienced.
“I love you,”
Faramir whispered as they lay entwined around each other a few minutes
later.
“And I love
you,” Legolas replied, holding him closer.
The wind blew through
the thick blades of grass in a tiny glade on the banks of the Anduin,
where a man and an elf stood together by the river’s edge. The
man was cleaning himself up by the river.
“A human who
keeps clean!” Legolas sighed in pleasure, “I thought the
like never existed.”
Faramir smiled,
“Do you like Ithilien so far, my prince?”
“I certainly
do. My people will be happy here.”
“I am glad,”
Faramir whispered softly.
It was two days
after they had professed their love for each other. They had ridden
down to Ithilien so Legolas could see the area where the proposed elven
colony in Ithilien was to come up. He had been overjoyed when Faramir
had received Ithilien as his princedom - now they would be in such close
proximity.
They had stopped
for a rest in a small clearing by the river. Faramir had fallen slightly
ill after his exposure to the cold and had spent an entire day in bed,
with Legolas hovering nearby and making hidden, lewd gestures that had
made him laugh and anyone else in the room, give him puzzled glances.
The others had seemed pleasantly surprised to see the cordiality with
which Legolas now treated the steward but said nothing else. If the
healers thought anything of the bruises and even more so of the love
bites all over their steward’s body, they had said little. Aragorn
however had muttered something about dwarven ales, and the healers had
tried hard to hide their smiles for they knew the night of drunken revelry
had affected many the same way. A day later, Faramir had insisted he
needed the fresh refreshing air of Ithilien, and that he was just a
little out of sorts, so the pre-appointed ride for Ithilien had not
been cancelled.
Faramir went to
lie down for a while on the grassy bank, while Legolas cleaned himself
up. When Legolas turned round he found the steward completely naked
on the grass lying on his side, and smiling at him. He cocked up an
eye and came and sat down by him, gulping at the sight of his lover’s
beautifully sculpted body.
“Faramir,
put your clothes back on, you will aggravate your cold,” he admonished
picking up the other’s clothes.
Faramir reached
a hand out and stopped him. Sitting up, he grabbed both his hands and
said, “Make love to me, Legolas, here, for when we return there
is always a constant stream of visitors in both our rooms. Make love
to me now.”
Legolas looked into
the pleading grey eyes and succumbed promptly. Faramir was right. Unless
the entire citadel was recovering from a drunken orgy, they would not
give them a moment’s piece. Always, people trooped in and out
of either’s room.
“Wait,”
he said lovingly. Walking over to a tree nearby, he knelt and gently
plucked at a few stems from a plant growing wild. He squeezed them,
allowing a clear oil to flow out and then seated by his lover rubbed
it into him. Then he slid his finger in widening it, lovingly and slowly,
eyes always on the man so he’d know if he was hurting him. But
all that was visible on the young face was pure joy and contentment
as he entered him, and they were soon in the throes of passion.
They rode back in
a companionable silence.
“If Gimli
does not leave your room soon enough tonight can I come and knock him
out, Faramir asked suddenly.
Legolas burst out
laughing, “Can we not slip a sleeping draught into his food?”
Faramir shrugged,
“Or we could cart out the remaining crates of dwarven ale and
have a party. In an hour’s time they’ll be too drunk and
you and I can slip out, and spend all of tonight and the whole of tomorrow
together. I’m sure we’ll be able to think of something to
do.” He said slyly, grinning at the elf.
Their laughter echoed
through the dales as they raced off towards the White City.
THE END
