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29 March 2004 | 11953 words
Title: Devoid of Love
Disclaimer: LOTR and all its characters belong to Tolkien
Archiving: Drop me a line before you do
Warnings: Angst, implied rape and violence
Summary: A drunk Legolas gives in to his feelings for a depressed Faramir, who responds initially but then draws back haunted by shadows of the past. Legolas gets angry. And so things ensue...
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Archivist's note: Heilt has made a lovely series of pictures to accompany this story.
Sounds of laughter and idle chatter wafted through the high ceiling-ed hall as joy and mirth reigned supreme among the wedding guests. The bride glowed with pride and love while the groom’s countenance exhibited his pleasure, as did the revered look that crossed his eyes each time he set eyes on the golden haired fair lady he had just bound himself in marriage to.
While in a tiny alcove just outside the room, a dark haired young man looked out of the window at the starry sky, trying to forget that the woman he loved was marrying another. Faramir, Steward of Gondor and the newly named Prince of Ithilien had fallen in love with Éowyn of Rohan the moment he had seen her while both were recovering from injuries during the War of the Ring. How Éowyn felt about him he had never known, for at first she was infatuated with Aragorn, heir to Gondor’s throne, and then when Faramir had helped her differentiate childish fancy from true love, she had met his cousin bringing in messages from Cormallen, where the king had set up camp prior to setting up taking up his kingship in Minas Tirth.
Faramir had had no intention of attending the wedding expecting it to be held either in Rohan or in Dol Amroth, his cousin’s land, but various circumstances combining together had demanded the presence of a number of noteworthy people in Minas Tirth at the time set for the wedding, and therefore Aragorn had insisted that Minas Tirth be allowed to host it, much to the disappointment of the common folk in both places.
Faramir sighed as he watched the night sky dispassionately, feeling the gnawing pain in his heart, a strange aching feeling that somehow transmitted itself to his temples causing an intense ache. He felt the familiar tensing of his muscles, despair and desolation overcoming him, as the now common feeling of loneliness set in with a vengeance, painfully reminding him yet again of the deaths of his father and brother. He tried desperately to loosen himself up willing his taut muscles to relax, causing the ache in his temples to intensify.
From the hall came the sound of raucous laughter and joyous singing, getting louder by the minute, the effect of the strongest dwarven ales available in the middle earth, a dangerously potent drink for one unused to them, such as elves. The loudest peals of laughter came from a familiar source. Faramir felt himself tensing once again, as that sound reached his ears. Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood, he who would soon be setting up an elven colony in Ithilien near Faramir’s own princedom. He felt angered at his own irrational apprehension, but could do little to control it. The sound of Legolas’ voice always invoked that feeling. For when addressing him, it always held a thin veil of sarcasm, accompanied by a most sardonic lift of an exquisite elven eyebrow. And the words themselves dripped with barbs that pained him so much that only his father’s words had ever cut deeper. To hear himself being contradicted with such elaborate politeness that other onlookers did not see or feel the accompanying sneer was pure torture. For the words came from one whom he had admired at sight. Soft smooth fair skin, golden hair that fell like a sheet, tall in height and personage, lean yet undoubtedly strong, muscles that rippled when the hand tightened around the bow he always carried . . . Faramir could go on endlessly about the other’s virtues.
He knew he felt strongly for the elf, he had admired other men before, and knew that it was not uncommon for a man to love another man or even a male elf, but after his first few encounters with the elf, the severe snubs had convinced him that in future he must let his head rule. In matters of the heart he had forever failed. All his life, love was something he had forever given, but rarely received in return, be it Éowyn or the young daughter of one of the lords who had consorted with him merely to get close to his brother, or his father. His brother, Boromir had tried to make up for his father’s affection but with each progressive year, it had been glaringly obvious that having to choose between brother and father set an undue pressure on Boromir, so that he had begun to seem relieved at having to return to his soldiering duties away from his family. Boromir had loved him, but they had had little time together once he had joined the army and even less when Faramir had followed in his footsteps. And with Legolas he felt the elf held him a poor comparison to his brother who had been part of the fellowship along with the elf. Boromir’s valour was oft spoken of by the remaining members. And Legolas’ first comment on seeing him had been a whisper about his not being an inch of the warrior Boromir had been.
Love was not something he would foolishly burn his fingers with again. So, he thrust away his feelings for Legolas into a far corner of his self, where it weighed down upon him, like the guilt of being the one to survive, like each rejection from a loved one. He had no more love to give he told himself, he had given and given, and none had been returned, so he was devoid of any to give now. He wrapped his cloak tighter around him, and set off away from the revelry until he found a small room in a relatively deserted corner of the citadel. He entered it, and threw his cloak onto a chair before walking up to the window and looking out at the stars again.
He leaned forward against the wall letting his aching forehead rest against the cool stonework, searching for peace, and finding none, begging his overworked mind to desist putting undue pressure on itself, when he felt a soft touch on his shoulder.
“My Lord Steward,” the mocking tone sent a spiraling wave of pain to his head, and the smell of Gimli’s dwarven ale reached his nostrils leaving him nauseous. He remained where he was, unable to move, as the pain reached a crescendo, until all he was aware of was a loud drumming in his ears. He felt a hand go around his neck and turn him around, a soft voice was saying something, and the bindings that knotted his tunic in front were being removed, exposing his neck and chest to cool air. He was being held up, for he found he had no strength to stand on his own, and his hand flew up grabbing at green cloth, soft to touch, his fingers lightly brushing over the body it encased, and then his other hand came up suddenly and lightly caressed the soft smooth face of the elf, as he had often wished to.
The prince of Mirkwood was certainly under the influence of dwarven ale. He had seen the steward wander away and had followed him with no definite purpose, but on finding him in a near faint in his arms, he struggled to regain his senses, until the caress that electrified his very being. That touch – it had been all he had expected and more. His breath had caught and he had let go of the young man in his state of bliss. Faramir buckled under, his other hand still clenching the tunic, and only natural elven reflexes had helped Legolas grab him before he hit the floor.
Legolas grabbed the young steward by his arm, and pulled him back roughly meeting with little resistance. The man looked wan and tired, and was almost leaning into his arms, a soft scent from his dark hair wafting up to the elf’s nostrils as his head dipped slightly against his chest. Legolas gently placed a finger under Faramir’s chin and raised his head up, taking in the lines around the mouth and eyes, the circles under his closed eyes, and the pale neck thrown back now, with the irresistible dip just above the collar bone that showed up through loosened tunic.
He continued to hold the man against his body with one arm, and used the other to lightly finger the exposed collarbone and then the tiny dip in the throat, causing a soft moan from the man. The neck muscles constricted slightly sending a thrill coursing through Legolas’ body. He traced an upward path with his finger lightly dancing across Faramir’s cheek, up to his forehead, across his eyebrows, and then back again, bringing it to rest near his mouth. Faramir shuddered and sent out another moan, his hand tightening its grip on Legolas’ tunic.
Legolas ran his fingers lightly over the now colourless lips, gently pressing down the lower lip that so often pouted each time he made a sharp remark. It had amused him constantly to see the fall in Faramir’s expression every time he made a cutting reply, the eyes would cloud over slightly, the cheeks display the faintest hint of a pale pink, and the lower lip would jut out into a pout that often made the elf wonder what it would be like to grasp that lip between his teeth and suck at it. The very first time he had seen him, forgetting that Faramir had been injured and was still not completely healed, he had taken in the lean frame and haggard face, and expressed surprise that such a one could be Boromir’s brother, for of Boromir’s valour and bravery none was in doubt. Faramir had heard him, and his expression was like that of a puppy kicked by its master, and etched in the elf’s memory was the sight of those luscious lips hanging open, and a strange emotion reflected on the steward’s face. He had therefore taken to contradicting the young steward often though not unreasonably, and had always maintained a supercilious tone in his reply, and a superior manner in all their interactions, knowing it left Faramir flustered and inadequate.
He had tried telling himself to stop it for he was doing no noble deed by constantly putting down the man. But it was difficult to break the habit, and besides he felt he could not do without that pouting expression. He had however regretted it greatly, some days prior, at the dinner table, when the lip had trembled, and the eyes had shined brightly before glancing down at something on the floor. The shoulders had squared rigidly, and it had taken a while for the head to rise, a composed look once again schooling the man’s features. Aragorn had been furious, Gimli had disapproved, even Arwen had been angry, when he had remarked that Faramir was the wrong person to comment on the war of the ring when he hadn’t been there. He had felt like kicking himself, but could not bring himself to apologize to Faramir. Instead the hurt eyes that stared soulfully at him, stayed imprinted in his mind. How he had wanted to grab him, crush his mouth, and assure him that he did not hate him.
He tapped lightly on the slightly open mouth as gasping breaths came through it, warm air hitting the tips of his long fingers, the mouth widening a little, the pout being enhanced. He could hold it no longer. He bent down, and pulling Faramir’s face toward him, bit at that luscious lower lip, feeling the slight taste of the strawberries that had been served earlier. He nipped lightly all along the lip, causing another moan. And then, covered the open mouth with his own, pushing his tongue in, exploring, while at the same time sending light feathery touches up and down Faramir’s spinal column. He could feel the man buck under him, grunting as his mouth blocked the passage of air, and continued to ruthlessly kiss him.
Faramir’s eyes flew open as his brain cajoled him back to full consciousness, screaming for air, and when Legolas finally drew back, he took a shuddering gasp of breath and looked into those blue eyes, fearing what he might see. Blue eyes feasted hungrily on him, displaying almost an urgency as they roved over his lean frame. And then, Legolas suddenly pushed him against the wall, and bent and licked his neck lightly. Faramir found himself staring at a pointed ear, and before he realised it, had started nibbling at that one pointy tip. The reaction was one of joy. Legolas groaned, and thrust his groin against Faramir’s body pushing him further against the cool stone wall. Faramir licked the ear and ran a hand through the golden tresses that were held in place by a clasp.
The cry was soft, almost a whisper, but loud enough for Faramir to hear it as it was whispered in his ear. He stiffened immediately, his senses on a high keel, his mind screaming. He felt a strange coldness, as he suddenly pushed the elf off him, not with force, but by simply ducking out from under his embrace. He felt his cheeks flush, as he picked up his cloak. Then he felt a hard grip on his shoulder as the elf whirled him around fury shooting out of the azure eyes.
He thrust the hand away, his grey eyes reflecting hurt and humiliation, but to Legolas all that was visible was one who had rejected him. Faramir pushed away and bolted out of the door as he felt tears sting his eyes. By the time he was out of the door, his cheeks were wet, and the tears were flowing unchecked all through his run to his chambers.
Legolas froze for a moment, until anger gave him wings. He grabbed the half full bottle he had left on a table and raced after the steward, surprisingly fast for one completely drunk, and slipped a booted foot through the door just as the man was about to shut it.
He strode in his face a mask of barely suppressed anger that seemed to root the steward to his spot. Taking a long swig from the bottle, he placed it on a desk before grabbing Faramir by his shoulders and shaking him fiercely.
“You wanted this! I know you did!” he hissed, the stench of the ale strong and unimpaired.
“L- Legolas, p-please - ,” Faramir found himself begging, his tired mind unable to think, muscles protesting, stabbing pains shooting threw his neck and head, and as he was shaken viciously, every bone in his body seemed to rattle.
“I have seen you watch me! You think I’m blind?” Legolas suddenly struck out, his hand coming into sudden and forceful impact with the unprotected face. Faramir gasped in agony, more tears welling in his eyes. And then another backhanded slap across the other cheek, before he was roughly thrown onto his bed.
He fell heavily from the sudden movement, tried to regain his winded breath and then panicked as an obviously very drunk elf took yet another heavy swig of dwarven ale, and threw himself on the bed next to him. Strong arms reached for him, and dragged him closer, long fingers pushed up his tunic and pulled at the string holding up his leggings.
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The following people read the story, enjoyed it, and would like to thank the author: Maeve , LN Tora , , Mel