Aragorn was home; yet he had never felt so empty in his long
life. The trumpets of the city of the white towers rang out as the fragments
of the fellowship rode wearily to the gates; yet it sounded so hollow.
For Boromir was dead, and nothing had been right since. The road from
Lothlórien had been a dark one, his cloak and tunic still bore the dark
stains that were his lover’s blood; spilt in sacrifice. And so
Gondor’s rightful king returned home without it’s most beloved
son. Aragorn dismounted slowly, for all his body ached. He handed the
reins to a waiting groom and stood ready to face the guardians of Gondor.
Of all the encounters of the past few weeks he dreaded this most. His
duty to tell his beloved’s father and brother that he had fallen,
that their kin was dead. It was practically more than he was willing
to bear.
Boromir’s kin were instantly recognizable among the
assembled court, his father the image of Boromir had age been allowed
to work upon his features. He bowed low before the steward before turning
his gaze upon Faramir; what he saw there took his breath away. It was
as if in a moment death had been washed away and Boromir restored to
him in living, breathing flesh. Aragorn had scarce ever seen siblings
so alike. Faramir wore his raven hair in almost the same fashion and
length as his dear departed brother. They had the same deep brown eyes,
the same curved sensual lips, the same strong graceful frame. Gazing
upon him Aragorn saw Boromir in his youth as clearly as if looking through
time; and he felt a sob choke in his throat.
"You are welcome here Aragorn son of Arathorn, though
I wish only that your visit had come in better times." It was Boromir’s
father who spoke, though it was Faramir who seemed to burn with the
desire to speak. The younger man glanced about him quickly, and over
Aragorn’s shoulder into the crowded court. Aragorn knew the question
would come, though he had little strength left to answer it.
"Where is my brother? Where is Boromir? We have had
no word since he rode out from Rivendell" Meeting Faramir’s
eyes he saw the love there, for it reflected the love buried deep in
his own soul. A need, a want that threatened to overwhelm and drown
them both. He took the young man’s hands in his own, drawing the
strength he needed to speak of the thing that caused him so much pain.
"I wish with all my heart that I did not have to speak
of this, but it is as it is. For your brother is dead, he was wounded
and fell not one week hence; and there has not been a day since in which
my soul has not ached because of it."
With that he fell heavily to his knees and began to weep.
Aragorn looked about the room slowly, it was large and very
dark. The windows opening onto the east side of the tower showing nothing
save the complete blackness of the sky outside; there were no stars,
no cloud, just darkness. The fire in the grate had long since burned
low, it’s embers gentle glow scarcely casing any light upon the
sleeping chamber. Why had they put him here? Both Faramir and his father
had been insistent that he was to reside in Boromir’s suite of
chambers; four rooms high up on the eastern side of the tower. He had
wanted to refuse, afraid of being haunted by reminders of his lover,
fearful of the ghosts in the walls.
He needn’t have worried. Boromir had been a warrior
and as such never settled anywhere easily, Aragorn had found no obvious
external sign that his beloved had ever dwelt here. There were little
things of course; the chest against the wall was stacked high with his
clothes. Tunics, cloaks, britches and robes, he had tried pressing his
nose to the soft cloth, burying his face in it’s warmth; desperate
for some scent, some reminder of the reality of the man he had so recently
clasped in his arms. But it was not to be. The vast servantage of Gondor
were terribly efficient, and each new garment he pulled from the box
brought with it the scent of soap and dried flowers. So he’d put
them back, slowly, carefully, tears streaming down his weather worn
cheeks.
Finally, too worn with soul ache and weeping he fell into
the large soft bed that had cushioned his lover’s body for many
years.
He knew it was a dream, and the pain of that knowledge nearly
startled him into waking. Yet he fought it. Clinging to the last desperate
moments of sweetness in a world of emptiness. Boromir was here, pressed
all along the length of his body from behind, so close that not even
the thinnest of blades may have been inserted between their shuddering
flesh. He felt his breath hot upon his neck, then his kisses there also.
Warm, soft lips tracing the line of his ear, strong hands stroking his
chest holding him so close. Where their bodies met, his flesh felt aflame,
his britches tight and damp across his straining manhood.
"Boromir" he whispered, desperate for some contact
with his dream induced love, wanting to deepen the illusion so much
that it may, just for a moment, eclipse the bitter reality.
"Is dead" a voice, yet not his lovers. This voice
was softer, smoother, and it was speaking of things he had no heart
to hear. Confused he tried to escape the embrace, the tender caress
now seeming so menacing. But the arms held him fast, the touch never
faltering.
"Boromir!" it was a cry for help now, a plea to
his lost warrior to come and save him from the stranger in his bed.
"Is gone" the voice repeated, never loosing the
softness, the reassuring tone.
"Faramir?" he asked suddenly comprehending the
nature of the man in whose arms he lay.
"Yes" Aragorn relaxed, knowing there was no danger
in Gondor’s youngest son.
"What are you doing here?"
"I wanted to see you"
"Why?"
"You loved my brother?" It was a question, not
a reply.
"Aye, that I did, with all my soul"
"That’s not what I asked" Faramir punctuated
this statement with a soft caress to the front of Aragorn’s britches;
his half-hard cock throbbed at the touch.
"Oh?"
"So?"
"Yes, I loved your brother"
"How long?" Faramir had settled against him, head
in the crook of his neck, waiting.
"Since the first night in the blackness of Khazad-Dum,
Boromir was having..." he paused suddenly struck by the memory
//"By the time my brother came to release me I was sobbing, I don’t
believe he ever relieved his sense of guilt. Yet any time spent in the
darkness since as always inspired the nightmares."//
"Having what?" Faramir’s body was suddenly
tense, his breathing heavy. "Nightmares? The nightmares about the
dark? He was having them again?"
"Yes, he was having them again" Aragorn sighed,
knowing the terrible tide of emotions he had just released for the younger
man.
"It was my fault" Faramir whispered "all my
fault! I was so angry. I thought if I could just put Boromir away somewhere,
hide him away in the darkness then father may just notice me".
Faramir’s voice wavered now, Aragorn could hear the sobs so near
to breaking. He shifted so Faramir now lay in his arms, wrapping his
warmth, his comfort about the younger man.
"I lay in bed all that night, imagining all sorts of
terrible things happening to him, down there, in the dark; but I was
too afraid myself to go down and release him" Faramir paused, his
breathing deep and rhythmic; Aragorn felt the reverberation all through
his own weary flesh. He squeezed the young man gently, urging him to
go on with his story; to purge his soul of the grief and the guilt.
"I shall never forget the way he looked when I found
him, it broke me; I don’t think I have ever been truly whole since."
Faramir turned in Aragorn’s arms. In the shadowy light the men
looked at each other, Faramir’s eyes deep, soft, brimming with
tears. Aragorn met the gaze with his own, feeling his own heart melt
and ache all at once; slowly, almost without his control he felt the
tears brim then fall, following the channel so many of their fellows
had carved before. He dropped his gaze, only to raise it again when
he felt a single hot wet droplet fall upon his chest, and run down across
his skin. Faramir’s eyes were heavy lidded, his lips damp and
slightly parted, the suggestion of a question hanging upon them.
"Faramir?" he asked softly, brushing away the young
mans tears with the back of his hand.
"I loved my brother Aragorn, with all my heart, with
all my soul, with all my being. I shall live forever in his shadow,
and that shadow is so much darker now he is gone. But you loved him
too, yet in a way I never could. Your flesh and his were as one, so
some part of him lives in you still. I see it Aragorn, I saw it when
I saw you out upon the road coming to our gate; he is in you, you burn
with his light, his strength; and I want it. Love me Aragorn, I came
to you tonight so you may take me as you took my brother, and somehow
share the last of my brother’s soul. Please Aragorn, I need this."
For a long, silent moment Aragorn watched him, breathing
the same hot air, trying to absorb the implication of Faramir’s
words.
"I don’t know" he said finally " it
will not bring him back Faramir, it could never bring him back"
Faramir did not speak, instead he bent and brushed Aragorn’s weather
chapped lips with his own. The touch was feather light, and blissfully
soft; Aragorn was transported back to the dream from which Faramir had
awoken him mere moments before.
"Aye, but you look like your brother" Aragorn breathed
softly. Again Faramir did not speak, but his hands clenched against
the firm muscle of the ranger’s chest. Aragorn reached out a hand
and caressed the soft bulge in the young mans britches.
"Is this truly what you wish Faramir? I would do nothing
to cause you more grief, or any more pain"
"Would it cause you pain?" Faramir asked, his fingertip
stroking Aragorn’s nipple into hardness.
"No, in truth I think it would go some way to easing
the ache in my soul."
"Then I wish it, with all of mine."
Their lips met again, Aragorn lapping at the heated boundary
of Faramir’s mouth, tongue questing entry with a passion born
out of pain. Gondor’s youngest son matched his passion with equal
need, pressing every inch of his partially naked flesh against his fellow
man. Below the waist both men were still clothed, both in britches.
Aragorn’s the weather worn leather of his journey, Faramir’s
somewhat finer, a smooth lucid cloth somewhere between silk and water.
As Aragorn ran his fingers along the other mans thighs, he could feel
every twitch and shudder of the muscle. Slowly, with consummate tenderness
he began to unlace the ribbon binding the fabric closed. As the knot
slid free, so Faramir’s cock sprang free into his waiting hands;
hot, hard and weeping. He heard the young mans shuddered sigh as he
began to stroke, wrapping his palm around the whole length and moving
with a firm, rhythmic intensity. Faramir spread his thighs and thrust
up into Aragorn’s skilled ranger hands; his fingers clenching
spasmodically around the muscle of Aragorn’s upper arms.
There was an extremity to his touch, an urgency to his fingertips
pressed against muscle; it was almost a longing, something that made
Aragorn want to hold him, protect him, an urge he would never have connected
with any man, let alone another warrior. Softly he pushed him away from
his body, more to see his beautiful face than want to be parted from
the feeling. The ranger felt every throb of blood in his constricted
veins, but this only encouraged him into faster movements slickened
by the juices of Faramir’s own body, and Faramir was trembling,
he could see it in his slender body, feel it through the fingers still
pressed against his flesh.
For a long time there was only silence in the flickering
shadows, broken spasmodically by a gasp or a sigh. For Aragorn the arousal
was dizzying, clouding his senses, flesh burning with the heat of Faramir’s
touch. In the ecstatic half darkness the sons of Gondor became one in
his mind, pouring his thwarted love for one now upon the other. To his
body, his aching cock, Boromir was alive and burning in his arms. Each
sigh or half sob creating him anew, a ghost moving with them in the
darkness. Faramir was pulling Aragorn against him, almost as if he were
trying to crawl into the man who was saving him with bliss. Since Boromir’s
death Aragorn had been unable to recall any touch but that final one.
The iciness of death already dragging at his beloved’s flesh,
but with every moment that passed in the darkness; Faramir’s skin
on his, so close, so warm; was awakening the memory. Boromir’s
head resting against his chest in their post-coupling darkness, his
hands caressing sweat-dampened hair; reaching out to caress his strong
handsome face. While one hand continued to stroke Faramir’s aching
manhood, the other came up to trace the shape of the young mans face;
taking in everything, every line, the curve of his lips, feeling his
lashes flutter against his fingertips. They were so alike, and yet not
so, though he could not see in the darkness his memory provided every
detail of Boromir’s features, as it would do until the day he
died.
"Aragorn?" Faramir’s voice, tight with passion
and aching need, brought him startlingly back into the present. The
man in his arms was not Boromir, Boromir was dead; and loosing himself
in memory was not fair to the strong, sensual, living creature writhing
against his flesh.
"I’m here" he whispered in reply, and he
meant it; determined to dedicate every moment of this to Faramir; and
the easing of the grief for both of them.
Slowly he released the weeping flesh from his strong hands,
and began to slide down the other mans body; exploring every inch of
his sandy flesh with hungry lips. Reaching a dusky nipple he sucked
it gently into the hot, wet recess of his wanting mouth, rewarded by
a strangled groan from the man beneath him. Faramir was chanting his
name, running each word into the next so it became a constant whisper
filling the hot air with the dedications of love. Aragorn paused at
the warrior’s navel nuzzling with consummate tenderness, exploring
the delicious dip with his tongue; lapping at the smooth skin where
it ran with the sweat of arousal.
"Please" Faramir sobbed, the head of his manhood
throbbing against the stubble rough flesh of the ranger’s neck.
"Forgive me" Aragorn whispered, and with that he
engulfed the weeping head of the young mans cock into the silky recess
of his mouth. Taking him so deeply, so completely into the depths of
his throat. Instantly Faramir’s hands were in his hair, twisting
the raven strands around his fingertips.
"What is there to forgive?" he asked, while his
king’s tongue ran down and around his willing flesh, liberating
his soul with every infinitely delicate lick. Aragorn didn’t answer
him, yet he intensified his movements. Faramir pressed himself hard
against the ranger’s weight, his hair brushing his face. His mouth
came up to be kissed, he was trembling. His lips opened, and Aragorn
was between them; tongue darting into the velvety sweetness of his lover’s
mouth. Aragorn’s senses felt aflame as he touched bare skin, soft
skin, and soft, yielding flesh. Suddenly he was more alive than he had
ever felt in his long life, burning with the heat of living and loving.
Beneath him Faramir threw his head back as Aragorn’s
huge strong hands cupped and caressed his balls, kissed his neck and
face, covered his eyelids with soft butterfly kisses from warm, wet
lips. His breathing was hard against his chest, the sound and its warmth
sent his control spiraling. For the youngest son of Gondor there was
nothing akin to it in all the known world. He felt as though the ranger
had saved him. Not just his life, but his immortal soul. Plucked it
from the darkness in which it had been submerged, breathing life back
where he felt only death and despair. In his arms, with his fingers
caressing his flesh, he felt whole again, remade, reformed. Almost like
a child meek against him, yet stronger than he ever could have dreamed.
In this bed all life ended, there was only light and hope and soul.
Their coupling wrought an intricate web of emotion, in which he became
so entangled that it pained him to move even an inch from his lovers
flesh. He was hypnotized, entranced, lulled by his warmth, enclosed
in his aura, comforted by the power of his touch. His cock throbbed
in Aragorn’s mouth, more aroused than he could ever have believed.
He was so wet, pearly droplets escaping from the swollen head and being
lapped by the rangers oh so willing tongue. Then it was happening, rising
like a tide, drawn by his current of pleasure. To him it seemed that
the bed upon which they lay was a black hole, sucking emotion from the
world to bath the two lovers in delight. Release towered like a wave
above him, but before it broke there was something he had to know.
"What is there to forgive?" he asked again, tugging
at the ranger’s hair to elicit a response. Aragorn’s lips
slid from around his manhood, and Faramir could not help but sob for
the loss of it.
"For not having the strength to prevent all this pain"
and in one smooth movement he engulfed the man’s cock again. Faramir
could but gasp as the wave, as if in reaction to the confession, broke
over him, washing him with blissful release. The world exploded into
light, then collapsing darkness as he slipped away, slave to the touch
of another.
Aragorn watched Faramir pass out beneath him, struck to tears
again by the similarities he bore in relation to his brother. Reaching
out a hand he caressed the other mans cheek, his dark kiss swollen lips.
The irony, as in all life, was that that which he longed for, the subject
of his devotion, the object of his craving, the face that tortured his
every waking dream, a longing which no soul could ever hope to contain,
was gone. Yet here in his place was another, a shadow and a prayer;
but one which may just keep him alive, where his brother had almost
brought destruction. His lost lover had almost become an assassin, but
now his saviour was here in the most unlikely of forms.
Slowly Faramir’s eyelids began to flicker, his breathing
changing from erratic to slow and shallow again.
"I want you" Aragorn breathed turning Faramir’s
chin so their lips met in an impassioned though vaguely sated kiss.
He could taste him, his want, his love, his need. Though his eyes did
not open, and his body showed no sighs of wakefulness, his lips moved
beneath the ranger’s.
"Take me" he whispered " and end the heartache
for both of us."
Aragorn took his hand softly, entwining their fingers so
their flesh was almost as one. The heart within him was in torment,
blooming blood for the lover he’d lost yet burning with desire
for the man in his arms. With infinite tenderness he pushed the young
mans knees up and back, Faramir obligingly sliding his thighs into the
cradle created by Aragorn’s bent arms. Slowly, ever so slowly
he lent down to kiss the sated warrior; suddenly aware of his aching
need forgotten in the emotion of the last few moments. Yet now it remembered
its role with renewed fervor, throbbing against the tight muscle of
Faramir’s abdomen. With as little movement as he could he lent
across his waiting lover, his fingers questing at the shadows on the
nightstand. He grunted quietly as his fingertips traveled across Narsil
in it’s sheath, and clasped around the small vile of blade oil
with which he’d cleaned it earlier in the day. He uncapped it,
filling the still night air with the smell of the battlefield, another
harrowing reminder of how precarious love such as theirs truly was.
Faramir gasped as a single slick finger began a tender exploration
at the most intimate entrance to his quivering body. He made not a sound
as Aragorn pressed first one then a second finger deeply inside of him.
To his touch the warrior was hot, slick, and blissfully tight; it took
all his self control not to come simply in anticipation of entering
that velvety channel. He placed his lips against Faramir’s ear,
reveling in the sensation of his breath panted against his cheek.
"Ready beloved?" he whispered, voice husky, almost
distant.
Faramir’s hands guided him there, Aragorn felt him
gasp as he pushed for entry. He stroked the young warriors face as he
began to move; slowly at first, reveling in the sensation of flesh against
flesh, the exquisite resistance. Faramir’s hips rose to meet him,
urging him deeper. Though the need was maddening, Aragorn’s flesh
held vice like and throbbing in that delicious channel; he would not
rush this. To cause Faramir pain now, in this moment, would be a betrayal
so deep he would willingly put himself to death for it. The young man
was whimpering beneath him, pressing himself up against his king; trying
against all resistance to impale himself fully upon Aragorn’s
aching manhood.
Aragorn looked down at him, that beautiful face glazed with
perspiration. His eyes closed, lips slightly parted, wisps of hair plastered
against his sun-darkened cheeks. He was exquisite, incredible, a living,
breathing testament to the strength still in men and the hope that blazed
between them. This knowledge was almost too much, with a deep, shuddering
sigh he slid completely into his heaven-sent lover. For a moment they
were still, Aragorn calling upon every ounce of self-control to keep
from succumbing completely to the heat and the friction of Faramir’s
fabulous body. The minutes stretched on like hours before he felt a
hand upon his cheek, and the warrior’s pelvic bones pressed against
his urging him on. He needed no further prompting, he understood his
meaning; how could he not? So he began to move, each thrust gently but
deep. Slowly their bodies perfectly entwined, limb with limb, the hot
air filled with their sighs and gasps. Faramir kissed him, pressing
his lips to Aragorn’s eyes, his neck, his nipples. In turn Aragorn’s
hands stroked his flesh, pressing himself deeper, feeling his lover
arch to meet every thrust.
To the reluctant king the world was ablaze, burning with
a clarity of light he had not felt since Boromir’s passing. All
was touch and sigh and sweetness, there could be no wrong so long as
he had breath left to complete this act. To caress and feel, to embrace
and be held in return. Without shame he began to weep, sobs punctuating
each thrust; an outpouring of grief and joy; the balance so thin he
could no longer distinguish where one emotion failed and the other began.
Faramir was whispering his name, his voice too, heavy and thick with
crying. They were kissing and weeping, caressing and entwining; dragging
comfort and breath from the heat of each other’s flesh.
"He never wished you pain" Aragorn whispered, rocking
deep into his lover’s body; feeling Faramir’s manhood pulse
against the muscle of his abdomen.
"Pain?" Faramir asked, the word barley a whisper.
"You bore more guilt than was ever necessary"
"I never said I was sorry"
"Yet he knew, let it go beloved, forgive yourself, let
it be."
"How may I ever do so?"
"Give it to me" Aragorn breathed, pressing his
lips against his trembling lover.
"You already have all of me" Faramir gasped, misunderstanding
the implication of the older man’s words.
"No, give me the guilt, give me the pain, Boromir lives
in me still, in my heart. He cries out to give you forgiveness. Let
go sweet son of Gondor, let me give you peace."
He could see the internal struggle so perfectly evident upon
the warrior’s serene features, almost feel it in the shuddering
flesh so closely bound about his own; and the knowledge was almost too
much.
He had ceased moving during this exchange, but now he renewed
his movement; faster, deeper smoother, yet never loosing the consummate
tenderness that strove to tear their souls apart.
"Yes" Faramir breathed, barely more than a gasp
in the heady darkness. "Forgive me" and with that he pulled
himself against Aragorn, his body stiffening and trembling as he came
hard against the flesh of his confessor. The sensation of his lover’s
release was the final straw for Aragorn’s self control, almost
in the moment he felt the sticky heat upon his body he spent himself
into the welcoming heat of his beloved’s flesh; finding breath
only to whisper "always" before letting the world melt away
in a tide of darkness and stars.
By the time the world regained it’s clarity he found
his sated beloved already asleep. For what seemed like forever he gazed
down at him, following the rise and fall of his chest with every peaceful,
shallow breath.
There were no lines upon his face now, in sleep it was as
if he had never known pain, never known doubt; as Boromir had looked
in those final moments. A sudden fear gripped his heart with this thought
and he could not prevent his hand coming up to caress the young mans
cheek; sensing the warmth the heat of life. Calmed he drew the man into
his arms and settled down to sleep, Faramir’s head nestled in
the crook of his neck.
The darkness drew itself around him and he leaned into gratefully,
realizing how weary his flesh had become. Just as he closed his eyes
he felt gentle fingertips stroke his cheek, smiling he leaned into the
touch. A voice against his ear whispered his name, but this time it
was not Faramir. He knew this voice; it was the one that spoke to him
in all his dreams, that would call out to him forever, whenever he faced
the darkness alone.
"Thank-you my love. So as you were to me, now be to
him. We are all sons of Gondor."
"I miss you" Aragorn whispered straining into the
caress that never faltered.
"I am always with you," the voice answered, and
the touch was gone. Aragorn’s eyes flickered open but the shadow
was gone. In its place the tangible weight of his still sleeping lover
felt warm against his chest. Bending he laid one air-light kiss upon
Faramir’s brow, and settled to sleep again; as the first light
of dawn came drifting through the windows of the city of the white towers.
The End
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