You cannot protect him. That's why you take him from the
hands that push him to you and strip him of the torn, dirty rags of
his clothes. There are just a few moments that he can stay in the ring
of your arms and you can afford not to hurt him, and there is no pain
and indecency in your closeness. His body is thin and feverishly hot
in your embrace, and you want to shield him from watching eyes. But
you can't - you can't even let it last, you have to think how you hold
your arms, your body so that nothing interferes with the pleasure of
the observer - His pleasure.
Faramir's chest moves oddly, you can feel it against yours
- as if he can't take a deep breath. You wonder if it means a broken
rib or two. The tattered cloth slides from his shoulders under your
palms, and you see dark and swollen festering welts - new whip marks
crisscrossing older ones, barely healed. There is so much blood soaked
into his clothes that half of the fabric is stiff, and the smell is
brackish, metallic and dizzyingly strong. You feel your stomach lurch.
A choking feeling rises up in your throat and your eyes sting, almost
like with tears. But you don't cry; you haven't been able to cry already
for a long time.
You try to be careful, try not to hurt him more than necessary
but it's almost impossible, and Faramir's breath turns into a hiss and
becomes even more frequent and shallow. His eyes never leave your face,
pupils huge and black, so expanded that they swallow up the color of
his irises. It is painful to see his gaze like that, even though you
know you should've got used to it by now. His lips, cracked and parched,
with dry blood on them, don't move. It is the last shred of his pride
he's still holding onto - he doesn't talk during these *meetings*. Not
in front of Him... Him and the Ring.
But his hands talk - talk with fierce eloquence as he raises
them and brings them to your face, palms cupping your cheeks, and looks
at your face desperately, reading the signs of tiredness and new abuse
in it. The tips of his fingers are so gentle running over the fresh
cut on the side of your face, skin split open by an Uruk-hai's whip
three days ago. And Faramir's eyes, widened in pain, become a tad more
hopeless, and warm and so sad.
If you could only let it go on. If you could just stay like
that, feeling his fingers run through your hair, untangling sticky strands.
But you know you'll pay for the delay - most importantly, he will pay.
You smile apologetically at him, whispering: "I'm sorry."
And his clothes slip to the floor, leaving him naked, and
for a moment a flash of frantic shame fills his eyes, his teeth clenched.
He shivers as if noticing cold for the first time, and you can see how
much effort it takes him to control himself. Even after all those times
it still wrecks him, every time what's done to him destroys some part
of him.
You feel shame as well. Not for your physical closeness,
not for the position you shouldn't be with your brother, not for what
you're going to do - but for making him go through it, time after time.
You know it would probably be easier for him to just let go - to let
it be over.
But you can't relinquish him. You don't even believe there
is hope any more, not with the way He and the Ring grow closer and thrive.
But you're almost grateful for the threats, for the blackmail He uses
to keep both of you alive. If one kills himself, the other will pay
for it. You aren't afraid of torture, even knowing what they are capable
of, how they change and break bodies and minds. But the truth is that
you need it: these trysts, no matter how rare they are, no matter that
they are invariably filled with obscenity.
As long as you can hold your brother in your arms, even for
a few moments, you'll keep going on.
Faramir regains control a moment later, straightening, shaking
dirty strands of hair away from his face. His features are serene, try
to be - as if nothing wrong happens, as if there is no one but you and
him here. He's too proud to admit how much it torments him, how he's
ashamed. A smile flits over his face as he looks at you - a supporting,
approving smile that rends your heart worse that anything else, and
your guilt for what you've done and will do to him is suffocating.
He raises his hands to the collar of your tunic, unlacing
it. Breath is caught in your throat as his thumb brushes over the hollow
between your collarbones. Your hands fly up, covering his, and despair
explodes in your mind, an unbearable wish for it to be just like that
and nothing else, just holding his hands in yours, his skin hot and
the backs of his hands chapped and rough.
"Are you going to do anything, my dear Boromir?" the creature
sitting on the throne asks. "Or shall we quit it for today?"
The creature's eyes that used to be so clever and intent
and bright are black now, with a small flicker of fire in their depth.
Long strands fall on the ageless face, so white it seems to be carved
of marble. The hands that you used to see holding the handle of a sword
are just as white and cold, lying on the elbow rests placidly, and the
golden band on one finger burns with unceasing fire even in the shadowy
room. The voice sounds like clanking of metal, like swish of a whip,
and you have to put all your strength into an effort not to flinch.
You swallow hard, and Faramir's hands pull your shirt off
quickly, and now his palms are on your chest. Doing the right thing,
stroking, fingers playing with your nipples, tweaking them - just as
He and the Ring want to see. But He doesn't notice - at least you hope
He doesn't because you don't want to think what He'll do to you if He
does - how Faramir's palm touches you gently, for a moment. It's no
more than a flitting touch but you sense it, and you know what he wants
to tell you. What he is forced to do means nothing; his love is more
than these forced caresses.
But your body does respond. Your reaction is as much spurred
by the fear that if it doesn't, it will be all over, you will never
be allowed to see each other again. And yet there is more than that,
you can't help it. Your body seeks release, craves it - and finds it
in this unnatural intimacy with your brother. Sex with Faramir is more
than just consolation; it is pleasure as well.
You want him; you want him even before your body gives in
to his caresses. And the shame of it burns your mind worse than any
humiliation you've been put through. The Ring knows so well every shameful
secret of yours. It is what it does - drags it out and makes you live
it, with no chance of escape.
Sometimes you wonder if Faramir would forgive you if he knew
- would his touches still be as gentle, his eyes as reveling in your
face? But sometimes you think he knows - and forgives, doesn't judge
you - and it makes you feel even guiltier than ever.
But right now it is his hands traveling over your chest and
belly, coaxing response from you, and oh he's so good at it, he can
deceive almost anyone, so bold he looks as his hand slides between your
legs, palm cupping over your straining arousal.
It is wrong, he shouldn't be doing it - shouldn't have to
do it. At least you can spare him from doing things, just let him accept
what he can't prevent. But he was always like that, wasn't he? Protecting
you as if he were your elder. Sparing you when you don't spare him.
Doing it as if he's initiating it. As if he enjoys it. As if no one
forces both of you into it.
His warm rough palm on your cock sends a jolt through you
- so violent that you gasp and have to bite your lip. Faramir's eyes
are so warm looking at you - he sees nothing but you - not Him, not
for the giggling, whispering crowd of orcs and Uruk-Hais around.
His hand twines into your hair, pulling your head closer,
and his lips cover your mouth, licking blood from it. He kisses you,
and you feel brackish tang of blood in his mouth as well but his tongue
is hot and insistent, and you almost forget everything, your arms wrap
around him, pull him closer, roam wildly over his body, crumpling his
hair, tracing too-prominent line of his vertebrae, cupping the resilient
flesh of his buttocks.
It is what your brother wanted you to do, as you understand
too late, he wanted you to forget where you are, what you have to do
- to be in the world of your own, just you and him.
You press his head to your shoulder, breathing in the sweaty,
damp smell of his hair. His hair isn't soft any more, not like it was
when you used to tousle it playfully, leaving home for your errands.
That time seems so unreal now, like stuff from legends -
wide blue sky above your head, white stones of the city, wind blowing
Faramir's hair, your horn and your sword at your belt. You think it
probably still exists somewhere - the sky, the wind. You haven't seen
the White City for ages - and most likely won't see it again, not from
outside, anyway. You don't even know how much time passed. Two years?
Three?
Two or three years ago you would have found it impossible
to believe you could live like that, live and accept it, and go on,
day after day. But here you are, living, breathing, and you know that
as long as there is hope to press your brother to your chest like that,
you'll keep going on.
You don't know why He wants you alive - what sick fascination
it gives the Ring and the one who wears it - the one who was your comrade
in Fellowship once. But the plan works well: you live for Faramir, just
as Faramir lives for you.
Your breath is caught when he slips down onto his knees in
front of you. For a moment his face is tilted up, his eyes meeting yours,
wide opened, desperate and so trusting. It hurts; you wish he didn't
look like that at you. Especially when he's going to do what he's going
to. You almost say: "Please don't, please..." - but you know you both
will pay if you say it.
Then Faramir takes your cock and his scalding hot mouth wraps
around it, and you don't say anything, you just take in a sharp breath
and bite the heel of your palm.
It is a wrong thing to do.
"Boromir," the creature that used to be Aragorn says with
reproach. "Why do you restrain yourself? Is there something you're ashamed
of?"
You feel Faramir's hands tighten on your hips even as his
mouth doesn't leave the head of your cock. A shudder runs through your
body, as if cold water is splashed on your back. You expect a whip blow,
to you or, more likely, to Faramir - because it is *your* transgression.
But surprisingly it doesn't come. Perhaps for Aragorn to see this expectation
of a blow in your eyes is enough.
You take your hand away from your mouth and groan, the sound
hoarse and pathetic for being stifled for so long.
"Yes, that's better," the creature laughs. "Please your brother,
Faramir."
And he does, his mouth hot and tight, sliding up and down
your shaft, and his hair brushes over your thighs, warm and sticky,
and your head lolls back, your eyes rolling up, and you can't wait any
more, you're so close...
But you don't dare to, right? It's too little for Him. If
He doesn't get his entertainment in full, next time He won't call for
you, won't let you see your brother... You touch Faramir's head, pushing
him slightly, and he obeys, he knows the rules as well as you do. His
mouth is glistening with spit and your cock is dark and wet and trembling
in the air, wanting the heat of Faramir's lips around it again. You
feel such shame for this aching desire, for this purely physical need
to get to completion.
Oh you would give anything for changing the roles, for being
the one who takes, not the other way round. It is not new for you any
more, the years of captivity taught you a lot about the ways your body
can be defiled. But He never allows Faramir to top - maybe exactly because
you would prefer it this way. It's always you who enters him, no matter
how injured and in pain he is.
And he is in pain now, you can see it by the stiff way he
holds himself, and there are streaks of dry blood on his thighs. But
you don't have a choice, and he knows it. He gets up, and then his hands
lock on your face, his mouth covering yours for a few moments of feverish
kissing. The only way he can give his permission to you.
It would be easier if he turned away from you, if you could
take him from behind - comparatively easier, at least. But you know
he wants to see you, you know he finds comfort in it, that it is *you*
doing it to him, not someone else of many others - and how can you deny
him this comfort?
You hoist him slightly, put him onto the edge of the table,
and he eagerly goes with your hands, raising his legs. You take your
cock, guide the tip of it in. You're too terrified to look where you
aim because you suspect if you see the extent of damage there, you won't
be able to proceed. Faramir knows you so well. He leans forward, pressing
his mouth to yours again, kissing you even as you push in and his breath
hitches.
There is no way not to hurt him. Blood pounds in your temples
as you try to go slowly but it helps nothing. His entrance is burning
hot and tight and there is wetness covering your cock, and you know
you've torn him, reopened old wounds. His hands clench on your shoulders.
How you hate yourself for hurting him... But you still are
doing it, aren't you? You pay this price for being able to see him -
you make him suffer for the chance of being close to him.
He stops kissing you, his mouth going slack. As his head
lolls back, you can see how deathly pale he is, his eyes dark and oozing
pain. You pull out and push in again, and it is agony, and you know
there is no way to make it easier for him, and it is so impossibly wrong
that it can feel so good for you.
You want it to be over, sooner, right now, "Please," you
whisper even though there is no one to beg. But there is only so much
your body can do to speed it up, and your brother bites his lip through,
a trickle of blood running over his chin. Then he closes his eyes and
you slam into him, once, twice more - and then you're coming, your body
spasming in burning pleasure, a cry wrenched out of your throat as your
cock spurts and spurts jets of come inside his ass.
Faramir's body is slick with sweat and clammy as you pull
him closer, cradling him in your loose arms. Some of his welts reopened
and are bleeding, and you don't want to see how much blood there is
on your cock.
But he holds onto you, his arms clasped around your back,
and his face is pressed to your shoulder, his breath warm and moist
on your skin. You run your fingers through his hair, trying to unravel
at least some tangles in it, and kiss his temple.
"I love you," you whisper for only him to hear.
The hands that grab your shoulders are unexpected - as they
always are unexpected, and you flail trying to get free from them. But
years in the cell waned your strength, and the Uruk-Hais are just too
many, wrenching you away from Faramir, pulling him away from you.
His eyes are so dark and screaming on his white face. His
lips move, articulating your name, even as he doesn't make a sound.
He's calling for you - and you can't do anything, you can't change anything.
And you find some hidden strength, breaking away from the hands that
hold you, try to reach him once more. At least for one more moment to
touch him, to hold him, to kiss his face...
A blow breaks you down, the handle of Uruk-Hai whip. There
is taste of blood in your mouth and your vision gets hazed. Then you
push yourself up, desperately.
Only it is too late, they are already dragging Faramir away,
and no matter how you reach, the tips of your fingers can't quite touch
his, and then the distance between you grows, chasm splitting, and you
know there is no chance to touch him. He's taken away and you're pinned
in place by the hands that clench your shoulders and grab your hair,
pulling your head back.
"Yes, take him away," the creature says. "And don't forget
to remind the young Faramir that there is more pleasure than his brother
can give him."
You'll try to forget these words; you know it as you're jerked
up onto your feet, your arms twisted behind your back. In your cell,
alone, you'll try to believe these words were not said - or didn't mean
anything - and your brother isn't raped again and again somewhere in
the huge prison that the White City became.
"Oh Boromir." The creature gets up from his place and walks
up to you. The pale hand is brought to your cheek in a parody of a caress.
The Ring touches you, and it is cold, and it burns, and it feels as
if a brand is imprinted into your skin. "It was quite a performance
you've done for our pleasure. Keep amusing us, and we might want to
watch the show again."
You want to spit in his face; but you don't dare. How can
you, when the punishment for that will come not upon you but upon Faramir?
Even if Faramir would forgive you for it.
The fingers snap, and you're dragged out - out of the throne
room, downstairs, along the rows of cells, and dirty hands of the prisoners
reach towards you through the bars and voices wail and call for help.
They throw you on the stone floor, deliver a few kicks -
the Uruk-Hais likely didn't enjoy being fought. You curl, habitually,
your body knows, has learned how to protect itself. Finally they stop
and toss your clothes at you and leave, the bars locked with a clanking
sound.
You lie shivering, knowing that there is an armful of hay
in the corner and an old blanket and if you get there and wrap yourself
into it, you won't be so cold.
But you don't move, your teeth chattering, your breath coming
in broken gasps, sounding almost like sobs. If only you can cry... But
your eyes burn staying dry.
A chain clanks softly and a small shadow falls on the floor
in front of you. You can't bear to look up. The halfling comes closer
to you and squats in front of you. You can see his hairy feet firmly
planted on the stone floor, a cuff of the chain around his ankle.
Frodo is chained to the ring in the his cell, but the chain
is long enough for him to be able to move around. And the bars are wide
enough for him to be able to squeeze between them, with how thin he's
become. You don't know if He knows about this very comparative freedom
of movement of his, if it was done on purpose, in some long-term agenda
of Aragorn.
You don't know if it is mercy of another torment to have
him here.
Frodo doesn't ask anything and doesn't try to make you move,
just brings the blanket and wraps it around you. It is not enough to
make you stop shivering, but you don't think anything is.
His palm is wet running over your face as he wipes blood
from it.
You grit your teeth; suddenly his gentleness, his silent
taking care of you - you who are to blame for everything - is more than
you can bear.
"It's me who did it," you say. "You know it."
Frodo's hand doesn't falter, and you can't bear to look in
his eyes to see what's there.
"If I didn't try to take the Ring away from you," you say,
"you wouldn't give it to Aragorn. He wouldn't... he wouldn't become
*that*."
It's all been said before, nearly every time after seeing
your brother you're so rattled you can't stop talking, stop whipping
yourself for the things that are too late to change. The halfling knows
it; he's watched you falling apart so many times. You hear him sigh
loudly and shift a little from one foot to the other. His voice is quiet
and slightly raspy.
"But I gave it to him. And he accepted it. What sense is
there in measuring guilt?"
You don't want his hands to be so careful, pushing your hair
away from your bruised face. You stick your teeth into the knuckles
of your hand, focusing on pain, on the taste of blood in your mouth.
"Maybe there is still some hope," Frodo says. You laugh harshly
in reply. The halfling must've gone mad. "I think he tries to fight
it... Aragorn tries to fight it."
You still laugh and the words come broken, alternated with
gasps.
"Didn't... feel like he was fighting it... at all."
"But we all are still alive," he says sighing again. It's
kind of strange how such a heavy sound can come from such a small chest.
"Everyone from the Fellowship is still alive. Your brother is alive."
Yes, you think, yes, he is. And as Frodo's callused palm
covers your eyes, forcing your eyelids to fall down, and exhaustion
claims you at last, you think that yes, somewhere there, separated from
you by distance and stone walls, there is still your brother. And the
hope to hold him in your arms again, and kiss his lips yielding to your
mouth is what makes you go through day after day of darkness.
THE END
