Faramir could vaguely recollect that he had been struggling to stay
awake till he felt the fingers run through his hair and then slowly
down his cheek.
He was aching all over, his shoulder burning fiercely, and his head
feeling fogged. He was thoroughly exhausted, the cumulative strain of
the past many weeks coming to a head. All he wanted to do was sleep,
to give into the shadows that danced in front of him, even though a
tiny part of him refused to let him. A tiny part of him that kept throwing
up horrifying images, of a raging battle, of plains ravaged by an army
that seemed uncontainable, and worst of all an angered man whose very
words seemed to drag him back into a raging fire…
And then he had felt those fingers and all he had wanted to do was
to feel them forever. Feel them touching him… just the touch searing
through him, setting up a flurry of emotions that he had never known
existed. He was still tired, he still ached, his head seemed ready to
burst, and yet all that had receded into some corner of his mind as
the feel of those beautiful long fingers on his fevered skin took over
every sensation.
He had awoken to that touch, to the face that hovered over him, the
one he recognised from dreams he had long reconciled himself to. He
had gazed into the grey eyes and felt a strange unbridled desire and
a nameless fear rushing through him at the same time.
His king… it was his king… he’d thought to himself,
pushing the disquieting fear away… for how could he fear the king
who came in his dreams to save Gondor from a terrible fate. He’d
looked into those deep grey eyes and he had known that it was the desire
that had shown on his face.
The king had laughed softly then and stroked his face gently and bade
him to rest and recover his strength. He had clasped Faramir’s
hands after that, those same fingers gently squeezing his hands, a gesture
the younger man had weakly tried to return.
He wasn’t sure now when that had been. He had slept after that,
a deep, dreamless sleep, so unlike the previous days, and it was only
on awakening the next day that he’d realised much had changed
in Minas Tirith.
He had known his brother was lost, even before the war that raged had
reached right outside the city gates. They had heard his horn as a distant
roll in the sky many days prior, and then Faramir had had that awful
dream, of his brother falling to Orc arrows and barely a day later the
pieces of Boromir’s horn had washed up on the shores of the Anduin.
And now, it appeared, his father too was dead - in his grief-maddened
state he had thrown himself into the same pyre he had wished to burn
Faramir on. The young man could remember riding out to battle and then
falling…hitting the ground… and then there was blackness
until he had heard somewhere in a half-dream state… fleeting words,
his father screaming that he would never let Faramir fall into the clutches
of their foes.
But Faramir had been saved by the king who had returned to Minas Tirith
as war had raged around the city walls. The king had tried to reason
with the Steward who ranted madly at his fevered son’s side but
on failing had ridden out to defend the city, returning just in time
to save Faramir’s life.
The same king who had taken over the onerous task of saving Middle-earth...
Aragorn … the brave and noble man who had taken on the quest to
destroy a very powerful but dangerous ring from a halfling. He would
lead the armies to Mordor and vanquish the dark forces, he told Faramir,
as he held him in his arms while the still ailing young man wept at
the loss of so many that were dear to him. Gandalf he had learnt had
been slain at Moria, and not just Boromir but also his other companions
had been separated from him in a fierce battle against the Uruk Hai.
He had no doubt, he told Faramir, that they had not survived for he
had found no trace of them, save Boromir’s broken horn which he
had sent floating down the Anduin in homage.
Faramir must not worry, the king had said consolingly, all would be
well, for he was there now for the younger man.
Faramir had felt a strange stirring in his heart at that… some
forlorn hope had been given to him, and he clung to it desperately.
Aragorn had pulled him closer.
“I am glad I could save at least you… you must worry no
more now… I am here for you… I know you I can count on you.”
“Yes, you can,” Faramir murmured, “you can always
count on me, my lord, I am yours to command.”
“I know,” Aragorn replied gently, “I saw it in your
eyes, your love, your desire, I assure it is returned, dear one.”
And then Faramir had felt those lips on his, a gentle brush, as though
Aragorn knew there was little he could do to assuage the pain of all
their losses, but still wished in some way to show him that there was
still something he could live for.
“I shall return soon, ” Aragorn promised when he left,
leaning forward to kiss Faramir once again. Faramir felt the kiss surge
through his body, and pressed forward to deepen it, to assure this beautiful
man that he would indeed serve him always, in any and every way.
“I shall return again soon,” Aragorn had breathed out heavily,
when he had left, releasing him with obvious reluctance.
It was over the next few days that he came to realise that while he
had been saved from his father’s terror-stricken act he may not
have been saved from seeing what Denethor had feared. He had not understood
at first what it was his father had feared so much but when he found
that the king had returned at the head of an army of Orcs that had broken
away from the forces of Isengard, who were to help him overthrow the
forces of Mordor, he’d understood just what Denethor had been
afraid would happen.
He’d been appalled at Aragorn’s action when he’d
found out and had tried to question it, but had been told in a tone
of such affection, as he had not heard in a long time, to return to
his rest, with a promise that all would be fine and glorious before
he knew it.
And he’d accepted it, because now there was no one else he would
heed, for none were left. And this was the king he had dreamt of after
all.
Aragorn would save them all from the darkness. He would destroy that
ring as he had set out to do, Faramir was sure. The king he had dreamt
of was a noble and pure man. Surely it was his nobility that had persuaded
these Orcs to leave the forces of darkness and follow him instead?
Aragorn spent some time with him each day, sitting by him, as he ate,
gently stroking Faramir’s hair, his face, his back, his chest,
his hands wandering under the thin nightshirt the younger man wore.
Aragorn had then shown him the ring too, a strange innocuous little
thing that might seem incapable of harbouring such evil in it. But Faramir
knew when he saw it, when he heard what it was and when he heard a voice
stirring in his ears, that it was powerful and dangerous.
“You must destroy it if that is what Mithrandir had advised in
the council,” he said with a shudder.
A fleeting look had passed through Aragorn’s eyes for the briefest
of seconds.
“Would you not like it?” he had asked, “Your father
felt it might be of use, when I met him before I led his armies out,
after you fell.”
“No!” And Faramir had turned his face away.
Aragorn had left him to rest after that, but he had been unable to.
They had not spoken of the ring again.
“Faramir.”
He moaned softly as their bodies came in contact. He moaned a little
louder as he felt the king’s hardness rub against his and then
they found themselves falling in each other’s arms onto his tangled
sheets. He felt the robe he wore being moved up, a draught of cool air
hit his naked lower body and then the warm nakedness of his king covered
him.
The fingers were beautiful, long and slender, yet strong. They were
roughened by the years, yet the touch was soft as they wandered over
his face and neck. Faramir moaned into the touch, as they wandered down
to his collarbone, tracing patterns into the scars on his bare chest,
carefully avoiding the still healing wounds.
“My Lord,” he murmured softly.
“Aragorn… my name is Aragorn.”
“Aragorn,” he moaned.
“Say that again, my precious heart,” came the sensual voice
he craved to hear.
“Aragorn,” he repeated, half sobbing now, as the fingers
settled on his left nipple, pinching lightly.
“My sweet and gentle Faramir, the only one who loves me unconditionally,”
Aragorn whispered into his ear, as he spread his body over Faramir’s
naked form. The younger man gasped a little as his wounded shoulder
was pressed, so Aragorn shifted slightly.
“Dearest,” he moaned into his ear as he ground himself
against Faramir’s arousal. Faramir arched up to meet him, ignoring
the pains flaring through his weary body. He could move only one hand,
so he placed that on Aragorn’s back encouraging him to press down
harder and faster. All his aches were forgotten as the heat pooled in
his lower belly.
He felt the sticky wetness spread over his lower belly. Aragorn rose
off him, and suddenly with the weight gone, all the pain returned with
a vengeance. He groaned a pain-filled sound that caused Aragorn to look
up sharply while he dressed.
“What is it, love, would you like some more?” the king
asked, laughing.
And then the blackness swept over him, as he succumbed to exhaustion
and pain, awakening only briefly when Aragorn tucked his covers around
him and bade him sleep awhile.
When he woke up the next time, they made love right there on his bed.
He spent the next few days in his chambers as Aragorn had said he should,
undisturbed, for his role as Aragorn’s bedmate was quite clear
to all in the citadel. He heard a little of what happened outside the
citadel, of how the citizenry had been charmed by the new king despite
the Orcs he led, and of how they were planning battles day and night.
He did want to fight by his lord’s side but he was still too weak
and he knew that as well as Aragorn.
It would take time to organise the armies, he knew, and to get all
the stores for the march to Mordor in place, and yet, he wondered, was
it not more pressing to destroy the ring. He tried, once, to question
Aragorn about it.
“Don’t you worry about it, my sweet one,” Aragorn
had murmured, before claiming his lips in a passionate kiss, “I
know what to do with it.”
Faramir quelled the feeling of disquiet that was beginning to grow
in his heart. Aragorn was a good and honourable man… a man destined
to be a wise and excellent ruler of men.
He despaired at his slow recovery; he was too exhausted to be able
to get enough rest and the tread of Orcs outside his door made him strangely
uneasy though Aragorn had promised him often that these were Orcs who
had left the dark side. He even had some as his personal guard he told
him. The Orc captain who led Aragorn’s personal guard was the
one who left Faramir most uneasy, but Aragorn would simply smile when
he confided his worries to him.
“You worry too much. Boromir told me that of you.”
And that mention of his brother had made Faramir even more despondent
and unhappy.
“I shall return when you feel better,” Aragorn had said
and Faramir had thought he detected a strain of impatience in his voice.
He didn’t see Aragorn again for the rest of the day as he sat
in his rooms fretting over his behaviour. When the door creaked open
he looked up to see Aragorn standing there, observing him closely. He
sat up hastily and tried to smile.
“You’re back,” he said and he knew the relief in
his tone was evident.
Aragorn nodded.
“Do you feel better now?” he asked, gently fingering the
sash on the long robe he wore.
“Yes,” he replied softly, knowing instinctively, just as
he’d always known with his father that somehow he had, even if
in a smaller way, disappointed Aragorn, “I’m sorry,”
he added quietly.
“You need not apologise,” Aragorn replied.
“But-“
“Undress and get on to your knees, sweetest,” Aragorn said,
unknotting the sash and loosening his robes.
He did so promptly, hurriedly flinging off the thin robe, which was
all he wore. He wished for nothing more than that Aragorn make love
to him, always. As it was, he came to visit Faramir barely once a day.
He got onto his knees eagerly, resting his injured shoulder on the
bed, and then laid his head on his crossed arms. Aragorn pulled off
his own robes and moved behind him and then spitting into his fingers,
prepared him quickly and entered him in one swift motion. Faramir tried
not to cry out from the sudden pain of Aragorn’s swollen member
breaching him and filling the tight passage. He grunted softly as Aragorn
suddenly pulled back and thrust in again, more forcefully this time.
His arms slipped and he fell forward but the hands digging into his
waist and hips held him in place. The pain continued, radiating up his
lower back, but he ignored it, wanting the pleasure that he knew would
follow for was this not his beloved Aragorn? He automatically spread
his legs wider.
He could hear Aragorn moaning into his ear, murmuring garbled words
and he realised he too was mumbling incoherently, begging Aragorn to
push into him harder. He felt himself being pulled against the king’s
body, and cried out as his shoulder flared in pain too. Aragorn began
thrusting harder now, pushing deeper and deeper into him. His hand roved
over Faramir’s body, stroking the flat stomach, and finally closed
around his hardening member. Aragorn long fingers rapidly stroked the
now hard shaft, sending a bevy of sensations coursing through Faramir’s
veins. He felt a pleasure unlike before, almost painful in its intensity,
his excited muscles clenching around Aragorn’s member, until finally
the king hit that one spot inside him. He cried aloud then, and Aragorn
pushed him there once again, at the same time clenching his arousal.
He cried out aloud as he came, and then felt Aragorn’s release
spurting inside him, as he lay there breathing heavily, with his king
slumped over him.
“Mmm…,” Aragorn nuzzled his shoulder, “Such
a tasty little thing you are… would you like to hear what else
I would do with you, my lovely little princeling?”
“Yes,” Faramir breathed out heavily.
“I would first take your wrists and tie them to the bedpost with
my sash and then I would take your ankles, and – “
He never did get to hear what Aragorn would do after that for a knock
on the door interrupted them harshly.
“What is it?” Aragorn roared out angrily, a tone Faramir
had never heard him use and which, strangely, scared him. Aragorn seemed
to notice his involuntary flinch for he promptly and very gently ran
his fingers through Faramir’s hair.
“News from our spies in Rohan,” an Orc at the door said,
“there is an army gathering there, under the banners of Gondor
and Mirkwood and…”
“Enough!” Aragorn snapped, and pulled his robes on quickly,
“Stay here, dearest,” he told Faramir and rose.
Faramir stirred in surprise, “An army under Gondor’s banner?
In Rohan… but who would…?”
And then he gasped, “Can I come with you?” A banner from
Gondor…who else could it be, after all? And did not Aragorn say
he searched for traces of his companions and found none… perhaps
they had survived after all?
“Perhaps Bor –” he began excitedly, and tried to
rise, unmindful of his nakedness and the obvious signs of their recent
lovemaking still showing on his lower body. The Orc’s eyes gleamed
as they fell on him, but Faramir ignored the intrusive look for once.
“I told you to stay here,” Aragorn snapped out, placing
hand on his shoulder to restrain him from rising, “You will stay
here. I will not be disobeyed.”
“But –”
“I shall not repeat myself!”
Faramir continued to lie there tiredly even after Aragorn had left.
His muscles felt sore and he was exhausted, and Aragorn’s tone
with him had worried him. But the news he had heard had sent a small
spark of hope into his heart.
Perhaps… Boromir still lived….?
He made up his mind. Rising, he pulled on his robe and then walked
slowly and stiffly out of the room.
He turned into the corridor and stopped in confusion, unsure of how
to proceed. He had never been allowed in this wing before. A group of
Orcs stood at one end and the leader appeared to notice him. They promptly
barred his progress.
“You cannot leave!” the Orc captain informed him, and grabbed
his arm, turning him around.
“Let go of me,” Faramir retorted.
The captain simply shoved the young man over to two of his soldiers.
“Take him back to his chambers,” he ordered, “And
inform his king that he has broken the rules.”
Before Faramir could utter a protest, they had dragged him back down
the corridor, got the door open and pushed him onto his bed. The Captain
followed them. Standing at the door, he glared at the dazed young ranger.
“I have ways of making people obey me. My soldiers will be only
too happy to teach you obedience but the king may object to their methods!
But who knows now. He will be very angry when he hears of what you tried
to do.”
They shut the door as they left and there was no mistaking the sound
of the heavy bolt being drawn across it. Faramir lay sprawled on the
sheets, biting his lower lip. *All he’d wanted to do was to meet
with the spy from Rohan and find out if they knew aught of Boromir there.
Who else could have the banners of Gondor flying there after all?*
And now Aragorn would be angry with him too. Silent tears rolled down
his pale cheeks.
The sound of the bolt being drawn made him look up. The door pushed
open to reveal Aragorn. The Orc captain and two guards stood behind
him, their faces gleeful.
Faramir stared at then in surprise, “Aragorn,” he said
struggling to rise, hurriedly wiping the tear tracks off his cheeks.
“Stay!” the older man said, a frown marring his handsome
features. He stood in front of the young lord, with his hands behind
his back.
“Please do not be angry with me,” Faramir pleaded, knowing
it would be in vain. Of course, Aragorn would be angry. Faramir always
managed to anger those who were most important to him, except Boromir.
“I am very angry with you,” Aragorn retorted, “You
have disobeyed me, Faramir. You tried to leave the room. You tried to
leave me.”
“I would never leave you,” Faramir said, his voice soft
and sad, “I merely wished to -”
“You tried to leave this room against my orders and you must
be penalised for that, is it not?” Aragorn cut in furiously.
Faramir lowered his head.
“Look up,” Aragorn’s voice was like ice.
Faramir raised his gaze and stared in fascinated horror at the whip
that Aragorn now held in his hands . A single flick of the wrist sent
a cracking noise reverberating through the room. Then Aragorn handed
the whip to the Orc who smiled horribly at Faramir.
“Undress and kneel over there,” Aragorn ordered, indicating
the stone bench by the window.
He stood uncertainly. Aragorn's expression was cold and hard.
“It will hurt you more if you are whipped on your front than
your back, dearest,” Aragorn said patiently as he motioned the
Orc captain forward, “Undress now, or he will do it for you.”
Faramir shuddered as the Orc leered at him. He took off the single
robe he wore and then knelt over the bench, knowing as he did that the
eyes of all the Orc soldiers were trained hungrily on his naked body.
Aragorn nodded in satisfaction and stepped back.
“Whip him,” he ordered, “Until I tell you to stop.”
The bench was cold against his chest and abdomen. From where he lay
Faramir could see Aragorn watching intently, the grey eyes cold and
narrowed. The whip landed across his back, cutting into his skin. He
bit his lip to keep from crying out but he couldn’t help it when
it landed the second time, cutting into the tender flesh of his buttocks.
His cries died out to soft moans as the thick lashes rained across
his bare back, buttocks and thighs, cutting the skin in various places.
Above him the other Orcs continued to leer at him as he was whipped,
their mouths salivating, their eyes gleaming with a greedy lustfulness.
One even rubbed himself with his hand.
Aragorn too continued to watch, hands clasped behind his back, mouth
pursed, his grey eyes were completely expressionless.
Tears trickled from Faramir’s face, as he finally heard Aragorn’s
cold tones commanding the captain to stop. The last thing he heard before
slipping into a painful unconsciousness was the sneering voices of the
other orcs.
When he came to he was lying on soft white sheets of silk, still unclad,
his back and buttocks feeling raw and painful. Aragorn, still in the
robes he wore earlier, was holding him. The golden ring, Faramir noticed
blearily, hung from the chain around his neck.
Aragorn’s hands were slipping between Faramir’s legs to
stroke him. Faramir felt himself harden even as he tried to figure out
where he was.
“You’re awake,” Aragorn said in a pleased tone, “I
knew I could wake you up by my mere touch.”
He was on his bed now, he realised dreamily as the fingers snaked into
his most intimate regions, stroking him, pinching him lightly, the mere
touch seeming to take him away from the pain coursing through his back.
He moaned lustily in response.
“Louder darling,” Aragorn encouraged, and nodded towards
the other side of the room.
Faramir followed his gaze through tired eyes and gasped as he noticed
the Orc captain and his two lieutenants standing there watching him.
He looked around himself once again, realising that he lay in Aragorn’s
arms with his legs spread out wide, every inch of his body exposed to
the feasting eyes of the three Orcs.
Aragorn began fondling him roughly now, even as the three Orcs leered,
“I could give you to them,” he said calmly, “To use
as they please. I could have you tied up and helpless for them to indulge
in each of their whims and fancies and I’m sure you know they
have many.”
With that, he suddenly shoved Faramir towards the largest of the three.
“If anything has happened to Faramir, I do not know what I will
do,” Boromir said unhappily.
“Nothing shall happen him to him,” Legolas said persistently.
“To sit here, doing nothing,” Boromir fretted.
“We are not doing ‘nothing’. Remember, Gandalf and
Elrond have counselled and planned this out. They know what they do.”
“I should hope so!” Boromir said glumly.
Faramir gasped as the Orcs rushed at him. He scrabbled away on his
hands and knees, crying out. The leering creature came closer, and the
stench from its mouth had Faramir nearly gagging. He sank to the floor
in a stupor, his breath coming out in rasps, his back seemed on fire.
The Orc leaned over him, its gloved hand reaching for his legs. Faramir
whimpered miserably as the hand landed on his aching groin.
“Stop!” Aragorn said calmly, as the second one neared Faramir.
The Orcs turned to him expectantly, even as Faramir cowered, breathing
heavily, covering himself ineffectually with his hands.
“Leave!” Aragorn commanded.
The Orcs shrugged in disappointment but left.
“The next time, I will not stop them,” Aragorn said calmly,
and beckoned the still dazed Faramir towards him.
Faramir obeyed, rising, and almost falling back. He stumbled over to
where Aragorn sat on the bed, and at Aragorn’s signal, knelt over
the bed. Aragorn stood, undid his robe and raising Faramir’s hips,
nudged his legs apart and repeated the now familiar routine unceremoniously.
Faramir felt little pleasure as the king thrust into him repeatedly.
All he felt was a tremendous ache in his heart to parallel the one that
coursed through his lower back. He knew what he had feared was happening.
Aragorn was fast being pulled into the influence of the ring, and none
could stop him, least of all he, in his weakened state.
When Aragorn finally rose off him, the younger man was tired beyond
endurance. He lay slumped over the bed, the sheets soiled by the release
that he could not help. His fingers clutched the soft silk tightly,
as he lay there, breathing heavily, his legs splayed apart, Aragorn’s
release coating his bruised buttocks and thighs. He tried to get up,
dragging his legs up, and instead fell face-first on the bed, collapsing
into the soiled sheets.
“See what you make me do to you?” Aragorn said sadly, as
he retied his robe, “You must never behave in such a bad manner
again, do you hear me?
Faramir simply laid there, unwanted tears coursing down his cheeks.
“Soon,” Legolas said softly to the distraught warrior who
paced Theoden King’s chambers incessantly.
“How soon?” Boromir demanded, “Aragorn has the ring,
we know naught of how it has affected him, save that he is in Minas
Tirith and plans to attack Sauron with an army of Orcs! And my father
is dead and none knows of my brother! And Aragorn still holds the ring!”
“You know Gandalf and Elrond know what they must do. Do not fear.
All shall be well. Faramir shall be well,” Gimli said gruffly,
as the three of them sat through another agonising day as Theoden mustered
his troops.
Faramir lay huddling miserably on his bed. He felt cold and tired,
and he ached all over. Aragorn had visited him twice each day for the
last few days, but Faramir no longer felt as he had hoped to once. And
he knew Aragorn was realising it too. There was little pleasure in their
coupling now, at least none for him. Faramir could no longer even pretend
to himself that he still liked it. All he felt was pain; the pleasures
he once felt by mere touch of Aragorn’s hands on his bare skin,
the fulfilment that having Aragorn inside him once produced, all seemed
feelings from a distant dream of the past. Now every session with Aragorn
left him in painful tears, and yet he could not refuse him. Each time
he willingly gave in to Aragorn.
He curled up unhappily as he heard the door creak open, and Aragorn’s
silhouette filled the doorway. The other man walked in slowly up to
the bed, and with each nearing footstep, Faramir’s heart beat
a little faster. He could feel cold metal against his hip through his
robe as Aragorn bent over him, the little ring still dangling from his
neck on the chain. He gasped almost in pain but Aragorn just smiled.
*The Ring*
“The Orc army has left for Mordor,” Aragorn told him as
he sat down on the bed next to him forcing him to turn and look into
those grey eyes that he had once thought were loving.
Faramir stared at him quietly through wary eyes.
“And I leave tomorrow with the rest of Gondor's army. Will you
not bid me farewell?”
“You go to destroy the ring?” Faramir asked hopefully.
“I go to defeat Sauron,” Aragorn said gently.
He felt the bile rise to his throat, “But you must destroy the
ring for that Aragorn,” he said desperately.
Aragorn just smiled again.
“You must,” Faramir repeated insistently, sitting up, not
with little difficulty.
“So pure,” Aragorn mused softly, as though he had not heard
him, “So uncorrupted by power and greed and lust. You truly do
not want this power do you? All the others did. I could see it in their
eyes. Even Frodo though he tried to resist. And Gandalf would not even
take it in his hand.” He crooked a finger under Faramir’s
chin and turned his face up towards him so that their eyes met.
Faramir stared back at him in horror. Unbridled lust shone from Aragorn’s
eyes.
“You are so like him, dearest. You will not even take it in your
hand,” Aragorn mused, “What will you do now, dear one? Will
you serve me as you promised, or will you serve some other?”
“Not with the ring,” Faramir said unhappily.
“The Deceiver awaits us all in his dark tower, dear one. I can
defeat him with this ring. And then all will be fine, you’ll see.”
“Not like this,” Faramir repeated, “You must destroy
the ring.”
“It will help me,” Aragorn said, “You shall see,
should you decide you are going to serve me as I desire, and not indulge
in these meaningless little revolts! You will serve me, will you not?”
Faramir shook his head mutely, and watched almost terrified as Aragorn’s
expression changed to one of fury.
The king darted forward and pulled him out of the bed violently. Faramir
fell, sprawling on the floor, his foot catching in his robes.
“You dare refuse me again?” Aragorn asked coldly, whipping
the robe off Faramir. The younger man tried to get up, only to be pushed
onto his back, as Aragorn undid his own clothes revealing his arousal.
“You must destroy it,” Faramir repeated desperately, “You
do not see what it does –”
A harsh slap across his face stunned him into silence. He raised a
trembling hand to his aching cheek, his eyes blurring with tears as
Aragorn glared at him furiously.
“I ask you again, will you serve me as I desire?” Aragorn
asked coldly.
Faramir stared back at him in fear but said nothing.
“I have let you have your own way far too long,” Aragorn
retorted furiously, grabbing Faramir by his arms and shaking him hard,
“You will serve me, whether you wish to or not. I have
put up with your pathetic behaviour these last few days, but now I will
show you. I shall not be refused. You shall submit to me, and I shall
have you as I please when I please!”
He gripped the thin wrists painfully and shoved Faramir onto his back
again, forcing him to cry out in pain as his still injured shoulder
was wrenched. Ignoring the cry, Aragorn used his free hand to grip Faramir’s
legs and push them up and apart. Then he brutally shoved his erection
into Faramir’s passage, quickly and painfully breaching him. Faramir
cried out in pain. Aragorn ignored him and thrust harder into him, deliberately
painful, clearly intent on hurting him. Faramir screamed again as his
under prepared muscles were stretched.
“Don’t,” he gasped out, “Please don’t…
I would not refuse you… but for the ring, you know that,”
he pleaded repeated, but Aragorn took no notice of him. The ring swayed
lazily above Faramir as he wept.
“You lie! Traitor,” Aragorn spat at him, as he continued
to push into him, “I truly desired you and you return my love
with treachery!”
He repeatedly pulled out only to slam back into Faramir, each time
with increasing force, still holding the wrists down with one hand,
so that the injured shoulder was pulled at harshly. His other hand clenched
Faramir’s waist, digging into the pale, tender skin, as he pulled
him towards him with each thrust.
Faramir sobbed each time Aragorn slammed into him one more time, the
words biting into him. His legs were splayed in the air now, as he lay
impaled on Aragorn’s hard flesh. Pain flared through every muscle
and sinew, increasingly spiralling his overwrought mind away from consciousness.
Somewhere through the haze of agony coursing through him, he heard
a door crash open, the sound cutting through the loud grunts and angry
words spilling out of Aragorn’s hard mouth.
“Aragorn!” the cry reverberated from the door. Spots danced
in front of Faramir’s eyes, as Aragorn pulled roughly out of him,
released his wrists and let his legs fall to the ground. He landed in
a crumpled heap on the hard, cold floor.
The last thing he saw was a brilliant flash of white before the blackness
overcame his distraught mind.
The muster from Rohan had stopped to camp by a stream for the night
when the message reached them tied to the leg of a hawk.
“It is from Elrond,” Legolas said, his eyes shining, “They
have reached Minas Tirith.”
Boromir jumped up, “What else do they say?” he demanded.
“Naught, save that they will send another message soon.”
“I should have gone ahead with them,” Boromir moaned fretfully.
“Nay, laddie, you know you were needed to help Theoden and Eomer
lead the troops,” Gimli said gently, but it didn’t help
console Boromir much, who continued to pace up and down the camp.
Faramir awoke to a soft, lilting voice that called to him. He lay with
his eyes closed for a few seconds, trying to place the voice, only to
realise he could not even recall where he was. He remembered waking
up to another voice, many days ago it seemed. The King had returned.
His eyes flew open and he sat up with a start. Some unbidden memory
had come to him of a darkness enveloping Minas Tirith.
“Don’t!” came a sharp voice, even as pain shot through
his body like searing spikes. His numb limbs cried in protest and he
groaned.
“Faramir!”
He knew that voice. Mithrandir. But – Mithrandir was dead, was
he not?
“Mithrandir,” he said hoarsely, “You’re alive?”
“Yes, and I’m glad to see you’re awake,” the
Istar said quietly, “You had us worried.”
There was another in the room. An Elf.
“Let him rest,” this elf said suddenly.
“What happened?” Faramir asked, as a wave of memories returned
of the events he had endured. And yet, where was Aragorn, and who was
this Elf and how had Mithrandir come here? The wizard would not meet
his gaze.
“Elrond is right, you must rest,” he murmured instead.
Elrond… Lord of Imladris… here? Faramir stared up in shock.
He felt as though he were in a dream, as though all he could remember
going through had been merely a nightmare, and yet, as he saw the two
ancient faces in front of him, he knew.
It was no dream.
“Aragorn?” he asked, his voice almost a whisper, dreading
the response as he remembered that blinding flash of light.
“He is sleeping,” Gandalf said.
“But –but… he was… the ring… it…,”
he felt the panic begin to edge into his voice.
“The ring is destroyed now,” Elrond told him wearily, “You
have been unconscious for a few days now.”
Faramir stared at him incomprehendingly.
“And Aragorn?” Faramir repeated, still seeing the anger
in those cold, uncompromising eyes.
“He will recover,” Elrond said firmly, having guessed all
that Faramir wished not to voice, “But you must rest now, you
have been through much, and you will need to heal.”
And he knew he could hide nothing from these two.
“Everything is all right now,” Elrond said softly, “And
Boromir is soon on his way back from Rohan.”
“Boromir!” Faramir exclaimed, remembering what the Orc
captain had said. Then…
”He is – he is all right?” he asked anxiously.
“Yes indeed, and anxious to see you. We thought we’d have
to restrain him to prevent him arriving with us until he was reminded
Theoden and Eomer could use the help of a good general and Gondor needs
a Steward.”
Faramir took a deep breath as he remembered his father. But Boromir…
at least that was some good news, he thought tiredly. Boromir was well.
They would not let him speak more, suggesting instead that he try and
get some rest. He welcomed the suggestion, for he needed to think and
besides, Aragorn’s last evening with him had left him feeling
extremely sore even now.
Elrond examined him when he awoke next, to his great mortification;
the soft hand feeling his legs and probing between his buttocks carefully
to see how the injuries Aragorn had inflicted on him now fared, fingering
them lightly to watch Faramir’s reaction so as to gauge the extent
of healing. He examined the marks left by the whipping too. For some
reason Faramir found himself telling Elrond it was the Orc captain who
had whipped him. Elrond simply nodded in response.
“And the other injuries… dud the Orcs inflict those too?”
Gandolaf asked, his tone inscrutable.
“I have no other injuries,” Faramir said quietly.
“You have -,” Gandalf started but went silent as Faramir
turned away his gaze.
By the end of the examination, Faramir’s face was streaked with
silent tears of embarrassment and pain. Elrond had not remarked on the
tears.
The next few days he spent in bed as ordered to by Elrond and Gandalf
for he was determined to recover before his brother returned. He had
no desire to explain any of his injuries to him.
Gandalf told him all that had occurred as he lay there.
Elrond, Gandalf and the young halfling ringbearer had ridden to Minas
Tirith with an army of elves that had been mustered from among those
fighting the armies of Dol Guldur. By the time they had reached the
city, however, the larger portion of Aragorn’s Orc army had already
marched out for the Black Gate headed by the Orc commander. Gandalf
had had no trouble entering Minas Tirith and locating Aragorn, rapt
as he had been in forcing Faramir’s submission.
Gandalf had not admitted it openly to Faramir but had it not been for
the king’s fascination with the younger man, they may not have
caught up with him in time.
They had wrested the ring from him and even as the Orc army from Gondor
clashed with Sauron’s forces the ring had finally been destroyed
by the young halfling who had returned with Elrond and Gandalf and then
had flown to Mount Doom on the back of a great eagle.
Aragorn had finally been healed by Elrond, who Gandalf said was the
greatest healer of their time, the evil influence of the ring no longer
resided in him, and Gondor would have the king it needed.
Things were returning to normal, Gandalf said with a forced cheerfulness.
By the time Boromir returned, to the fanfare that welcomed the Steward
into the city, things were even closer to normal. The city was beginning
to pick itself up again, the signs of battle were less conspicuous and
people came out onto the streets and even cheered and handed out flowers
as the small procession wound its way up to the citadel. And Faramir
was able to walk up to the courtyard and greet him there.
They had a short and tearful but joyous reunion, hugging each other
tight, trying to control their emotions unsuccessfully, before they
were all swept inside by Elrond and Gandalf.
“Where is Aragorn?” Boromir asked anxiously, as they all
trooped into the great hall of the citadel, his arm draped around his
younger brother’s thin shoulders keeping him close.
“Yes,” put in Gimli, “You said in your second missive
that he was unwell but your next message said that he is well now and…”
“He is,” Elrond said, “He will be awakening shortly.
He has been quite unwell.”
“As has Faramir, I think,” Boromir said inquiringly, his
eyes boring into his brother’s thinned frame and pale features.
“I am well now,” Faramir murmured tiredly.
“He is still recovering from his injuries,” Elrond cut
in with an exasperated look at Faramir, “He should not have been
out in the courtyard, but he was so insistent on wanting to see you
that I did not want to stop him.”
“I am well now,” Faramir repeated dully, looking all set
to retreat into a shell.
Boromir hugged him gently, “Ssh, do not fret so. We just care
for you, you know that. And you have looked better. I heard you were
injured defending the city.”
“A scratch,” Faramir began but then quietened as Boromir
shook his head smiling. He allowed himself to be pulled into the elder
man’s embrace and stayed there, snuggling into the familiar warmth,
and wishing he could remain there ensconced in that comfort with nothing
to worry about. He’d missed his brother so much all these months!
“Come meet the others,” Boromir said gently, and urged
Faramir towards Legolas, Gimli, Eomer and three more halflings.
A young apprentice from the houses of healing scurried into the room
and handed a message to Elrond who coughed insistently.
“The healers say Aragorn is awakening. Would you all like to
see him? Faramir, you should return to bed.”
“No, let him come too. I’ll take him back to his room myself
after that,” Boromir insisted and swept the younger man along
with him. Faramir risked a panicked glance at Elrond, who returned a
completely expressionless look.
When they reached Aragorn's chambers, Faramir stood to one side, leaning
heavily against the wall. Elrond and Boromir sat by Aragorn’s
bedside. The others were there too. The halflings, Mithrandir, and the
Elf from Mirkwood and the Dwarf.
Aragorn came awake slowly, moaning softly. Faramir clenched his fists
as he heard the pain in the soft sounds. The others gathered around
the bed, exclaiming gently, and for a few minutes Faramir’s view
of Aragorn was completely blocked.
He used the time to compose himself, schooling his face to show nothing
as the sounds of happy reunions filtered through his numbed brain. He
should not have been here. What would Aragorn say? How could they tell
the others all that had occurred between them? He should have left…
he could still leave… he should… he backed away, breathing
rapidly, unwilling to look at Aragorn’s deep, grey eyes.
“You must be Faramir!” the voice stopped him in is tracks
and he glanced up unsteadily, nodding warily.
“You look just like your brother,” Aragorn said smiling
warmly, and then sank back wearily against the pillows.
He nodded again dumbly, as the others resumed prattling merrily.
He hadn’t recognised him...
He didn’t remember… *I needn’t have worried, he does
not remember, he never will…*
Faramir stumbled out and went straight back to his room where he curled
miserably into the bed, and wept softly into the pillows until he fell
asleep from the exhaustion of the day’s events, waking only the
next morning, to find Boromir at his bedside.
“Elrond said you were to rest,” Boromir said gently, “So
I brought your breakfast here.”
Faramir tried to smile gratefully.
“I never got to speak to you afterward yesterday. How have you
been? Elrond said you were injured in the battle. What happened? And
I hear there were Orcs in the citadel later and that they kept you captive…
did they – did they -?” he asked anxiously, gathering his
younger brother gently into his arms, “You can…you can tell
me… if they ever touched you…”
“No, the King - he would not let them,” Faramir replied.
It was true, after all. Aragorn had never let the Orcs harm him, save
for the whipping and that had merely hurt him. Even when he’d
threatened to let them truly harm him, he had stopped them before they
could come near Faramir.
Boromir nodded, “He is a good man. I knew he would never be corrupted
by the ring.”
Faramir did not reply. He simply hunched miserably into his brother’s
embrace.
“I missed you,” he said quietly, after a while. Boromir’s
arms tightened about him.
Later in the afternoon, he went out into the balcony and sat there
quietly watching the way the sun shone above them onto the gardens below
full of singing birds and blooming flowers.
Elrond found him there and sat by him.
“He remembers nothing,” he said after a while, watching
Faramir’s face carefully, “He never will.”
Faramir nodded dully.
Aragorn remembered nothing… not the way he had made love to Faramir,
at first caring and loving and then hurtful… not Faramir’s
declarations of love for him, not his declarations of love to Faramir
in which the young man had always heard sincerity, not the way he had
forced himself into a still not completely unwilling Faramir.
“That is better for all,” he said quietly, “I too
shall try to forget, and the others must never know. Especially not
Boromir.”
Elrond stared at him for a while before speaking, “Do your wounds
hurt any more?” he asked.
“They will heal,” Faramir replied.
Elrond rose, and grasped him gently by the shoulders.
“I wish you well, Lord Faramir,” he said softly, but his
eyes were full of a deep sadness. Faramir looked away.
“Thank you, Lord Elrond,” he mumbled, his eyes trained
to the floor, taking in the patterns of the swirls in the wooden panels.
“Is there anything I can do for you?” Elrond asked. He
badly wanted to aid this aching young man in any little way he could.
Faramir was about to refuse when his eyes fell on the beautiful garden
below. He looked up hesitantly into the warm eyes of the elf lord.
The wind rustled through the branches, cool and gentle full of sweet
smells. He would have preferred to walk on his own, but his own body
had betrayed him. The flight of steps leading from his room to the garden
was long and winding, and he had been glad of the support Elrond offered
for he had felt dizziness and nausea overcome him mid-way. And the air
did refresh him.
He sat quietly on a bench shaded by a large leafy tree. Elrond sat
by him. After a while, something fell over his shoulders and he shied
away in surprise. It was a cloak. A warm, elven cloak.
“It is getting cold,” came Elrond’s soft voice, “Do
you wish to go back inside?”
He shook his head, a slight shake that might almost have gone unnoticed.
There was nothing for him to do inside, he had realised during the day.
They would not let him return to his entire list of duties as yet, so
he found he had little to do. He could sleep, but sleep brought its
own horrors.
The hand stayed on his shoulder as he continued to look out unseeingly,
until familiar voices cut through the quiet.
“Faramir!” Boromir said delightedly, “Lord Elrond,
I see you have sought the gardens too. Aragorn wished to have a walk
here,” he said.
Faramir looked up sharply, trying to calm his screaming nerves, as
Aragorn walked slowly down the steps that led into the garden.
“Faramir,” he said smiling at the younger man who stared
back at him mutely, taking in the familiar features, the lively grey
eyes, the pale features, “How do you fare… they tell me
the orcs kept us captive… I remember little but Boromir says you
have been injured in battle… I hope you are recovered now?”
He nodded mutely.
“Good lad,” Aragorn said. He reached a hand out to touch
the pale cheek in a gesture of affection, and was almost horrified at
the way Faramir flinched violently, though he regained his composure
almost immediately.
Aragorn looked at Boromir in distress.
“Back inside now, Faramir,” Elrond said briskly, in a futile
attempt to disperse the tension in the air, “You still need rest.”
“I’m sorry, Aragorn,” Boromir said softly, “He
is not yet comfortable with strangers…”
“I would not blame him,” Aragorn replied gently, but the
breeze still carried his voice to Faramir’s unhappy ears, “Orcs
do not make kind captors.”
“And yet he could have been through worse if it were not for
you,” Boromir said gratefully, “I – we - could not
thank you enough for that.”
“You mustn’t,” Aragorn said sadly, “I remember
naught.”
Between themselves, Aragorn and Boromir managed to sort out their duties
with a surprising level of efficiency. As king and steward they got
along famously, and the citadels was once again full of the sounds of
laughter, a far cry from the way it had been in Denethor’s times,
cold and forbidding.
Aragorn had just one tiny issue though; the solemn young man who aided
his Steward. He stood now formally before him with a letter from the
Haradric envoy he had been negotiating peace treaties with.
“My liege?” the young man said as he bowed and handed over
the latter
“Call me Aragorn, Faramir, please?” the King said smiling
at his Steward’s younger brother.
Large grey eyes stared back at him. Then Faramir shook his head slightly,
almost distressed, “Nay My Liege,” he said quietly, “That
would be unseemly.”
“You have to excuse him, Aragorn. He’s very conscious of
protocol,” Boromir said laughing, “That’s why he’s
such a fine diplomat, though I do think, Faramir if Aragorn wishes you
to do something, you should!”
Faramir’s face turned even more distressed at that.
Aragorn sighed, “No it is all right. You may address me as you
wish.”
Faramir nodded quietly and left.
He did call his king Aragorn sometimes…. in the quiet darkness
of his chambers each night as his thoughts wandered back incessantly
to those few days that he had tried to forget all as Aragorn had, but
could not. They stayed with him always, memories etched sharply in his
mind, some horrifying, some not as horrifying, but refusing to fade,
and forever leaving him with a strange yearning that he knew would never
be fulfilled ever.
The end
