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05 March 2006 | 2172 words
Disclaimer: LOTR and all its characters belong to Tolkien
Summary: Faramir is wounded in a battle
A/N: Much thanks to Iris for betaing. *huggles*
Aragorn strode back into the tent, impatient, anxious, and angered. The healer leaning over the prone figure on the pallet was one of the younger apprentices and his face scrunched up in fear at the sight of his king’s thunderous expression.
Aragorn sighed and his expression softened a little, but the boy remained tense. He couldn’t possibly do any good in such a state, Aragorn thought irritably, although this time he tried not to let it show.
“I shall tend to him. You are needed in the healers’ tents. And would you ask Master Healer to stop by when he is done?” he said calmly.
The boy nearly fled in his anxiety to please his king.
Faramir watched quietly from where he lay on the bed, as Aragorn walked over to the small table by his pallet and sifted through the herbs there.
“Why is the warden not here?” Aragorn demanded, “Where is he? And where are the older healers?”
“Looking after the grievously injured,” Faramir said blandly, “As they should be.”
“And who deemed you to not be among them?”
Faramir met his gaze squarely in the eye and then muttered through clenched teeth, “You were here when they removed the arrowhead. It has been pulled out and bound, that will suffice. I do not wish to pull the healers away from tending to those injured worse.”
The tone had been enough to assure Aragorn that his Steward was in as much pain as he had been earlier, when the healers had removed the arrowhead in his shoulder. Aragorn had been there, and he’d been frantic with worry, for the sight of a very pale Faramir lying on a bed in the Houses of Healing with a wound by a similar Haradric dart to the same shoulder, on the verge of slipping away from him, was one he continued to have nightmares about.
Aragorn continued to sift through the herbs, trying to calm himself as Faramir spoke, trying to forget how close to danger Faramir could have been this time as well. He felt a storm of emotions swirling inside him. He felt anger and a strange ache and a constriction around his chest each time he remembered seeing Faramir fall. The sounds of battle rushed into his ears even as Faramir watched him patiently.
There had been noise, shouts, screams, yells of fear, anger, victory. He had led his men through it all, with his friends by his side, Faramir among them. He’d never seen Faramir fight before, or he would have realised how Faramir kept an eye on him always. It was how he always fought at Boromir’s side, Imrahil had told him later. He was taught to guard his Captain General on the field, and now his king.
He had been fending off a horseman to his right and had not had the time to react to Legolas’ shouted warning. He hadn’t even realised the arrow had been headed for him, until he’d been shoved out of the way and almost unseated from his horse by his Steward’s slender body.
“Aragorn,” Faramir’s quiet voice broke through his thoughts, and he looked up at the younger man. The gentle face was lined with sweat, and the deep, grey eyes could not hide the pain from Aragorn’s piercing gaze.
That someone as Faramir, so kind and gentle and thoughtful should lie here, wounded and in pain to save him…
“You should not have done that,” Aragorn said, trying desperately to stay calm. He wanted to scream, to shout, to grab Faramir and shake him for doing this. When Faramir had fallen off his horse, in front of him, crying out in pain, his hand clutching at his shoulder, and the dark stain spreading over the side of his chest, he had felt a level of fear unlike any he had felt before.
“Done what?” Faramir asked, genuinely confused.
“Hurt yourself on my account,” he retorted, “Did I not order you to watch out and stay safe? And yet you choose to deliberately place yourself in harm’s way-”
“I would do it again,” Faramir replied calmly.
“Why?” Aragorn railed, “Because I am your king?”
“Because I love you,” Faramir said quietly, “And yes because you are my king and I am sworn to protect you. But even if you were not –”
Aragorn was by his side in an instant, placing his hand over a bruised cheek, “And you do not understand then why it hurts me to see you hurt?” he asked quietly, “I love you as much, and I cannot see you fall on my account.”
“I know,” Faramir whispered, grabbing the wrist lightly.
Aragorn let out a soft choked noise and pulled his wrist away. He rose abruptly and turned on his heel, trying to blink back the tears.
He kept seeing the same sight in front of him. A horse charging close to his, a flash of grey as Faramir launched himself off his horse, the bright steel of a Haradric arrow that would have pierced him, going instead into Faramir’s shoulder, in a spot left uncovered by his chain mail.
“Aragorn,” Faramir’s voice sounded worried, and pained, causing the king to turn around. The young steward was rising, pushing away his blankets. He was naked underneath, the clothes having been cut away rapidly by the healers earlier.
A clean bandage ran around his right shoulder, masking the ugly wound the arrow had left. His side was bruised and a number of small cuts and scrapes marked his chest and stomach. He was grimacing as he rose.
“Stay where you are,” Aragorn cried out and rushed to his side, grabbing him gently around the waist.
He held the younger man close, carefully pulling the tired head against his shoulder, running his hands slowly up and down the bruised upper body, needing to feel him in his arms.
When Faramir had fallen, he had hit his head and been knocked out for a few seconds, dazed from both the impact with the ground as well as the shoulder wound. In those few seconds, Aragorn had had a glimpse of pale, pinched features, and a still, slumped body. He had nearly fallen himself in a bid to scramble off his horse, prevented only by Legolas swiftly stopping him and the sight of Faramir slowly stirring, and trying to rise. Even then it had taken the combined efforts of Legolas and Gimli to get him to calm down somewhat.
“You should be resting,” Faramir said quietly now, “Not worrying yourself over me. I shall be fine. But you need rest. And food. And sleep.” He felt Aragorn’s fingers still their exploration of his body, and bit his lip in unhappiness.
“I shall not leave you this night, unless you wish me too,” Aragorn said quietly, and shifted a little so that Faramir could look up into his eyes.
“I would never wish you to leave,” Faramir said.
“Then I stay.”
Aragorn’s hands stayed around him, wrapped lightly around his naked waist, fingers splayed protectively over his bare midriff, their warmth radiating through his body, easing away the pain.
“I- I’m glad,” Faramir replied quietly.
Aragorn brushed a strand of hair off his face, and stroked his cheek lightly, “I love you dearly,” he said.
Faramir looked up, and shifting a little, kissed Aragorn lightly on the lips, inducing a soft sigh from the older man.
“I could not bear to lose you,” Aragorn breathed out, “I am not leaving your side this night or any other night now.”
Faramir rested his head against Aragorn’s chest, letting the gentle hands run through his hair , “I would not leave your side either. W-would you make love to me this night?”
“You’re hurt,” Aragorn said gently, ever mindful to not dismiss a request from Faramir. Not that he could ever refuse Faramir.
“It is but a scratch,” Faramir said softly, “I – I was scared when I saw the archer aiming for you. Forgive me for scaring you, but I could not bear the thought of you being hurt, and please Aragorn, make love to me… I need you…”
He rested his hand over Aragorn’s chest, aching for Aragorn to push inside him, to fill him, to reassure him that all was as it should be.
“You’re hurt,” Aragorn repeated.
“I need you,” Faramir said softly, trying to move closer to Aragorn.
“Sshh… I love you, but I will not hurt you, so you must stay as you are,” Aragorn said, holding him closer.
Faramir sighed softly, comforted by the embrace.
“Lie still and I shall take care of you. You scared me so much,” Aragorn said softly, and gently ran his hands over Faramir’s face, down his throat, over his chest, his stomach, the curve of his buttocks, his thighs. The blankets were pushed away and Faramir slowly melted into Aragorn’s touch.
He brushed his lips against Aragorn’s again, gasping softly as an insistent tongue slipped in. He opened his mouth to let Aragorn’s tongue in, revelling in the headiness that Aragorn could cause in him by just being near him. Aragorn’s tongue explored his mouth slowly, lovingly, before slipping out and running over his mouth, and then his jaw line.
He sighed softly as Aragorn’s tongue flicked up his jaw line, and slid over his earlobe, arching up into the wet touches that were fast undoing him. He could feel his body responding, the aching need in his lower body deepening. He felt Aragorn nudge him against the soft pillows and fell back, ignoring the twinge of pain in the back of his shoulder. The king’s robe fell to the floor, the silk rustling softly in the silence.
He let his eyes drift shut as Aragorn’s lips wandered slowly over his throat and chest, sucking in his breath as gentle teeth closed over a sensitive nipple, and worked it slowly into hardness. He felt himself bucking up involuntarily, seeking to meet Aragorn’s mouth, but he was being held in place by Aragorn’s lithe figure covering his upper body. He moaned as he felt the sensation build up in his groin, as Aragorn’s mouth left off his nipple and moved lower, licking over his ribs, kissing each and every cut on his body, his lips soft and gentle against the broken skin before the tongue finally dipped into his navel.
Faramir fisted his hands into the sheets under him, the pain in his shoulder overridden as Aragorn’s tongue lavished his navel thoroughly, dipping in, pushing deeper into it. Aragorn’s hands held his uninjured hand down, and his leg draped over his, holding him down, but Faramir could not have moved anyway. Held in place, with Aragorn’s tongue ravaging him, all he could do was tremble as the sensations coursed through his body.
He opened his eyes slowly. Aragorn’s upper body hovered over his arousal as the king bent his dark head over Faramir’s stomach, nuzzling against the flatness of Faramir’s lower belly. Faramir moaned softly as the damp sweat - slicked skin brushed against the heated tip of his arousal. He felt himself almost rear up, only to be gently held down by Aragorn.
“Unngghhh…” he moaned again, breaking off into a ragged sigh as Aragorn stretched his body out over him.
Even in that fevered state, Aragorn ensured that his entire weight did not land on Faramir’s body. Faramir trembled as Aragorn’s mouth lapped at his chest, throat and lips again, and again. And then nearly gasped as he felt the king’s hardness against his own.
“Aragorn,” he whispered hoarsely, and pulled the king closer, seeking to elongate this contact between them, this touch of skin to skin.
“Ssshhh…” Aragorn said softly, and stopped kissing him. Instead he raised his head and gently placed his hands on Faramir’s face, his grey eyes staring into Faramir’s – bright, sparkling, full of love and concern.
“Please…” Faramir said softly, pulling Aragorn closer.
Aragorn moved gently, his movements almost like a caress, slow, gentle and enticing, causing Faramir to gasp louder, the longer the sensation lasted. Again he moved, and again, running his aching hardness over Faramir’s straining body, and then he could stand it no longer. Gripping Faramir around the waist with one hand, holding him, ensuring he stayed comfortable, he reached his other hand down between them. They came together, the warm liquid intermingling on their heated flesh, to ragged sighs.
Aragorn cleaned them, carefully examining Faramir’s myriad small cuts and scrapes again in the process, frowning at the sight of each. Faramir watched in resignation and simply moved his head to kiss Aragorn when the king leaned over the bruise on his collarbone. He sighed as Aragorn gathered him in his arms.
“You must rest too,” he murmured drowsily before falling asleep against the king’s chest.
“I will, now,” Aragorn said softly.
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