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Ghosts Among Ruins (NC-17) Print

Written by Geale

12 September 2011 | 3440 words

Summary: Not a sound. Not so much as a sound or it will be over, and this will be lost. If it exists at all.
Pairing: Faramir & Aragorn
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Dark, but relatively angst free. Some rough m/m sex. A couple of bad words.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to J.R.R. Tolkien.
A/N: I was going to say that I have no idea where this came from, but the more I think about it, the more I am inclined to believe that I, unintentionally, might have been inspired by the wonderful classic Swordspoint by Ellen Kushner (gay suicidal heroes anyone?) and perhaps also by The End of Mr. Y by Scarlett Thomas, which I recently read. Perhaps.

In any case, I hope you like it!


Ghosts Among Ruins

There was silence. And then the horse burst forth from the shadows.

It was a gaunt beast, bleak, almost translucent, in the perpetual night. A cold clatter of hooves rose to an echo among the ruined walls of the houses that lined the narrow street. The sound was only slightly muted by the gloom that lay over stone-upon-stone so heavily that it was beginning to dig its way into its very core. Almost white it was, the horse, a spectre of a kind. A phantom of days so vivid in memory and yet so ancient. But it had a hint of a mortal grey about it, too. Its nostrils flared wildly and its eyes were rolling in their sockets as it flew down the street; but it made no noise, apart from the unintentional when hooves met cracked cobblestone.

The man, for his part, stood completely still. He was as pale as the shadow of life that came thundering towards him, but he remained unmoving. There was tension in his shoulders, however, and his eyes over which his eyelids had hung heavy only a moment ago had had the time to both widen and calculatingly narrow to mere slits since the first rumble above him reached his ears. And in his breast there was growing anticipation; the closer the horse came, the quicker his heart beat. When they were close enough to one another – so close that he could feel the flow of terror that radiated from the wretched animal stain the thick air – the man felt almost giddy. He smiled when the massive body was upon him, the breadth of a hand away, and he very nearly forgot the warnings and laughed aloud as it rushed over him, pushed against him and through him all at once.

The collision was brutal. The man had meant to stand his ground but was forced to his knees at the onslaught. His breath was torn from him with the sensation that he imagined must be very similar to that of having a notched and rusty blade dragged up through one’s throat. With his insides burning, he was thrown backwards as the rush of clammy white flesh and crumbling bone and icy blood hit him. Then there was the odd sensation of a solid form passing through him, dragging itself through another existence that was he; and it lasted until the coarse tail cruelly whipped the back of his head and almost snapped it off his shoulders. The sharp bite of a hoof set his lower back screaming as metal met spine, and shoved him forwards again, as a parting gift, leaving him broken and blazing.

Then there was silence again; for an exhilarating second everything was a blinding white, and there were no thoughts, no questions, and no purpose. He drank it in, in deep breaths, until he choked on one as a hand grabbed hold of the neck of his shirt, mindless of any locks of hair, and yanked him upright.

“Have you lost all sense?!”

Like a pile of rags he was thrown up against a wall, so that his back collided with the stone. There was still pain but it was subsiding. Any bruises, purple like night-flowers, that would spread over his pale skin would be gone as soon as he laid eyes on them. They always were, and he knew not why that was so. He lifted his head and looked into a pair of grey eyes that were as dark as the sky above. “What?” he asked, almost lazily.

He earned himself another hard shove against the wall for that. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

He could not help but laugh. It was no crazy laugh, just a small burst of surprise tangled with the glorious excitement he’d just experienced. “Aragorn… That’d be rather pointless, would you not say?”

A sharp elbow jamming into his ribs was his first answer. And then a hiss, “We cannot know that!”

“No…?” He made a half-hearted attempt to worm himself free since being pressed into jagged stone with only a thin shirt to shield his skin was rather unpleasant. The other man’s hold on him was relentless, however, and so he quickly brought an end to his endeavour.

“No, we don’t.” With one hand, Aragorn pushed his head to the side and bared his throat a little to the ever-present shadows. His other was still on his chest, keeping him in place. “Be quiet!”

“Aragorn…” He was tired now. Not very much, but a little. He tried to relax and he remembered to keep his voice down. “Come, let us–”

But the other man’s voice had started to shake, and it cut harshly through the air even as it fell to a ragged whisper. “Quiet!”

“But…”

He was slammed against the stone anew. Aragorn’s eyes were as wide as the horse’s had been, and his lips were trembling. In fact, so was his hand as it desperately tugged at his shirt. “Shut up, Faramir,” he hissed, his breath coming in small gasps. “Just, be quiet!”

He had no option, really, but to oblige. Aragorn’s hands grew frantic as they tore at Faramir’s clothes. A knee dug itself between the latter’s thighs and drove them apart. Their shirts and breeches and leggings were already soiled and some more rough treatment would hardly make a difference, but they were also the only items of clothing they had, and tearing laces and fastenings apart was ultimately a bad idea.

Faramir squirmed as Aragorn pushed against him while simultaneously trying to force open his shirt. “Listen…”

“No!” Aragorn’s eyes were flashing with a mixture of hunger and fear. They were paler now, taking on the slightest hint of the mad moon that sometimes sailed above them. “I need you to be quiet, Faramir.” His chaffed lips descended on the soft skin of the younger man’s neck, hard enough to mark it but restless enough to forget to do so.

Faramir’s vision blurred as Aragorn worked his way up to his ear and suckled his earlobe. There was a stale smell of forgotten caverns clinging to his lover, and muddy paths and dread. He let it surround him as well, and he easily left the lingering traces of fresh linen and kingsfoil behind.

Aragorn was already using his teeth, scraping them against the sensitive skin and breathing so heavily into his hair that Faramir felt his knees give way. The one lodged between his thighs prevented him from sliding to the ground but he could feel himself melt into the scarred stone and again his eyelids grew heavy. Aragorn’s hands were on his hips now, bringing their groins together with force. Faramir, upon discovering the state the older man was in, whimpered in response. Immediately two trembling fingers flew to his mouth to press against it.

“Hush!” Aragorn’s face was once more before his own. There were signs of battle in it still: he sported a cut on his cheek and the ghost of a bruise near his temple. Then there was the never-resting light in his eyes; it fed on panic, Faramir had figured out, and was so very much alive. “No sounds!”

Faramir gave a small smile and he rubbed himself against Aragorn, even though he was weary. “But you feel so good,” he whispered, watching how the words made his lord go, for a heartbeat, almost as pliant as he himself was. “I want you to know…”

“No!” Aragorn covered his mouth with his own.

The kiss was uncompromising. Faramir was forced to open up as Aragorn drove his tongue deep into his mouth, preventing any more words from reaching the night. He kissed the younger man uncontrollably, drawing a bit of blood as teeth grated against lips; and he sucked and twisted his tongue in a fashion that had Faramir silently begging for more. Anything that made him feel so powerless and so desired was grace; there was a plea in his very bones to be free of all demands and obligations, and there was such a tantalising promise hidden in the way Aragorn made him burn and bleed, and ache and explode.

Hands were all over him. Aragorn shoved one between their bodies and palmed Faramir’s arousal while pushing his own against the back of his own hand. There was not nearly enough friction. Using up the last of his energy, Faramir thrust into the hand that finally cupped his hard length and would have groaned had Aragorn not prohibited it. The hand cupped hard, the touch on the verge of becoming painful. And then the kiss ended.

Panting, Faramir, tried to stay upright but failed and, on some level, was not surprised when Aragorn let him fall to his knees before him with the stone cutting through his shirt and clawing at his back. There was no hesitation in the way that Aragorn shoved his still covered erection into his face. The hard bulge pressed against Faramir’s cheek and through the leather he could smell what lay on the other side: frustration, desire and the suggestion of a release so profound that only the final downfall of the world could match it in strength and anguish.

Faramir’s hands were clumsy, having attracted sleep when he paused to simply breathe, and half blind he fumbled with the lacings. He would have swayed had he had more space. In the end, his hands fell back to his sides and Aragorn’s anxious hand grabbed him by the back of his head and pressed his face into his thigh. Faramir heard and sensed the knots being dealt with, and he wished he were not so tired. When he was permitted to return to his task, the coarse leather of Aragorn’s breeches rasped against his cheek as he turned his head. The hard shaft had sprung out to greet him and dimly he decided to waste no time on sweetness. Faramir, his knees grating into the cobblestone, leaned in and took as much of the throbbing flesh in his mouth as he could manage, but Aragorn was too hot, too hard and too big, and Faramir choked, letting the cock slide from his lips. Wedged as he was between the wall and his lord’s body there was not much he could do but to turn his face away and hope Aragorn would pull back. And he did so, but only for a short moment.

Holding his cock by its base, he pushed it against Faramir’s mouth. He said nothing, but his harsh breathing together with the action was order enough. The heated skin scorched the younger man’s tongue and when he swallowed around it, Aragorn bucked, barely able to quench a moan. Faramir closed his eyes and made to suck a little harder. There was pain in the way Aragorn’s fingers tangled in his hair but it chased the softness that was wrapping around his senses away and he managed to lift his hands to Aragorn’s hips. His lover bucked again, shoving more of hos cock into Faramir’s mouth and the younger man dug his fingers into the older man’s backside and did not protest.

With the pain and the saltiness came more heat. It began trickling through Faramir at a slow but steady pace. It wove into the daze and if he for one moment had thought himself to be back in the white, sweet-smelling sea with the gentle voices, he was now absolutely certain that it had only been a trick of sorts. His teeth grazed the pounding flesh and the heat cleaved his spine into two and came sizzling to his loins. His own body’s responses made his breeches very tight over his own groin, and he wished he could stroke himself, fuck his own hand like Aragorn wanted to fuck his mouth. He had nothing to set against that demand and so he relaxed his throat and dropped the pace in order to be able to find his balance. He was given no more time to prepare before Aragorn seized control.

The older man drove in and out of his mouth, uncaring of the younger man’s head moving dangerously close to the stone. He set his own pace, obliterating rational thought and, eventually, the need to breathe. Faramir clung to him, sucking when he could, but mostly providing wet warmth and some type of friction.

It ended brutally. Aragorn, again taking his cock by the base, pulled it out of his mouth. It was leaking profusely at the tip now and glistened among the shadows and the sickly light that spilled down from a mock image of the moon, tossed into the low sky above the broken towers and rooftops. Faramir could not hold back a groan as Aragorn rubbed the head of his cock against his swollen lips, and then, heedless of any stubble, against his cheeks.

But he did not come. Faramir was hauled up again and, this time, found himself with his chest flat against the unyielding wall. His lacings were swiftly conquered and cool air fingered his arse as Aragorn parted the abused cheeks and probed the entrance to his body.

Faramir pressed his face into the wall and shivered as Aragorn’s hot breath sifted through his tangled hair. “You must be quiet now,” he rasped. “No noises…” his whisper grew urgent as he pushed the tip of his arousal against the forbidding muscle.

With his eyes already squeezed shut, Faramir nodded, not caring that his cheek stung where the stone dug into it. With his leggings sliding down his thighs, he was able to widen his stance a little and took a deep breath.

There was pain again as Aragorn breached him. Pain enough to make him want to cry out but he bit down on his own tongue and found that the metallic taste of blood went well with the nauseating burn. He choked on a sob as he was filled, and there were tiny silver stars twinkling at the edges of his vision. The only stars he ever saw in this place.

“Hush…” Aragorn was shaking as he sheathed himself completely in the darkness. His voice had cracked and he, too, sounded close to tears. “Please, Faramir, no sounds.”

Faramir was hard against the wall, harder than he had ever been before and he knew that somehow Aragorn could feel that. Of the times, he was not sure if they were many or few – time had a way of twisting around itself here – he and Aragorn had done this, now was the most painful, and the most liberating.

“Hard,” he begged, in no more than a faint gust of air, “deep…”

“Quiet!” Aragorn’s hand flew to his mouth again to cover it. “They’ll find us… They’ll hear us…” He pulled almost all the way out of Faramir before slamming into him with such force that what was left of his voice dwindled into a harsh exhale. “He’ll know…”

With Aragorn’s hand preventing him from speaking, Faramir could only nod again, an awkward jerk of his head. His senses were fleeing him now, or perhaps awareness was being reduced to the lower part of his body, where he was joined with Aragorn – the man who had set out to save him but ended up merging with him, in the dark. Faramir pushed back, impaling himself on Aragorn’s hard cock. The hand left his mouth to fall to his waist. Faramir ground his hips into the wall, with the other man pushing deeper and deeper and deeper… The ruined City towered silently above them, and there were no lights and no voices – just like Aragorn wanted.

He fucked Faramir desperately, but also with some determination. He held the younger man nailed to the wall of the crumbling house, held him close and yet not too close because then he would have no room to move. His thrusts grew harsher and Faramir’s skin was coated by a cold sweat. He was drowning in ragged breathing and pounding blood and when Aragorn pulled him back enough to curl his hand around Faramir’s straining cock, he tasted blood again, but he knew not the source of it.

Aragorn’s pace was cruel and addictive. His calloused hands raced against the burning skin, and tugged and twisted until Faramir was weeping. He knew he whimpered, he must have, for Aragorn’s warnings were all around him again: “Quiet… quiet, dearest Faramir… He’ll hear you, he’ll find you in the shadows and bring you back.” His thrusts into Faramir’s trembling body were irregular now. “He’ll find me too… Mithrandir.”

Faramir could not stop. He pushed back again, pushed into Aragorn’s hand, high now on the building tide. He could not die here – Aragorn might be uncertain, but Faramir knew – and here he needed not succumb to any other madness than his own. Here there were no hopeless missions and no other threats than his own soul breaking. And if it did, and he lacked the power to heal it – or was forgotten by the gods who were supposed to be love – he would only know a deeper sense of freedom, he thought. And as he felt Aragorn tear through his body, he wondered if it was not already too late, and he wondered if it was the same for Aragorn. If it were so, if they were truly lost, and all he would ever know again were the thrusts of Aragorn’s cock, every shattering stab of pleasure, and every tremble and shiver, then he would be thankful.

Honour was no longer, he had decided. There was no redemption. If this was what it meant to lose, then Faramir had no interest in victory.

When he came, he bit down on his knuckles, making his teeth penetrate his skin. He could feel his inner muscles clamping down, catching Aragorn in an iron grasp. The older man could not move when his searing hot release shot forth into Faramir’s body. They stood perfectly immobile for a moment before they tumbled to the ground, and Faramir felt as though the blood in his veins had been exchanged for fire. Aragorn fell on top of him, his cock still buried to the hilt in his body. Gasping for air, Faramir’s nails scraped against the broken stone and he let his mind dissolve.

When he came to, Aragorn had pushed him down onto his stomach and had draped himself over him. There was wet warmth as a tongue teased his ear and Faramir shivered. With his cock gone soft Aragorn could not do much fucking but he tried, slipping in and out of the limp body at a slow pace. Faramir slid a hand under his cheek and felt the weariness of the world seep into his bones and muscles. And the tears that had not yet dried on his face.

“Don’t let him…” His voice sounded so weak as it met with the ground.

Aragorn ceased his movements and came to lie very still. Faramir’s hole was loose now as the guardian muscle had failed in its task. “Sweetest?”

He always seemed to calm down after sex; afterwards, he was less afraid. Faramir tried to stay with him, tried to hold on and not slip away, but it was hard. Words came to him very slowly and he spoke with much difficulty. “Don’t… don’t let him find us. Please… No more… healing.”

Cold fingers twined around his free hand and dry lips left kisses near his temple. Aragorn’s voice was strained but it held. “No more, dearest… No more.”

Dazedly, on the very edge of conscious thought, Faramir wondered what Aragorn was seeing while his own eyesight faltered as sleep finally claimed him.

For himself, he did not expect to see another dawn.

End

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The following people read the story, enjoyed it, and would like to thank the author: alecia , LN Tora

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8 Comment(s)


NB: Comments may contain spoilers!

Ah yes, the silent ‘eeeeee!’ I do in my head whenever I see you’ve posted a new story ;D (And yes, the inevitable novel I write as a comment…) And oh, oh! It’s dark, so very dark and different and I’ve fallen instantly in love with these two all over again…again!

Now as I was reading I originally thought this might be some sort of continuation of your wonderful vampire-AU but realised soon enough that it was an entirely different animal, and I was pretty mystified until I got near the end and things became clearer (or perhaps foggier- this is a good thing!) The supernatural elements in your writing are a theme I always love to see explored and you certainly are the queen of well-written ethereal (but not too over-done) other-worldly happenings! I loved this so much :) (I go on a bit of a stream-of-consciousness thing here, please excuse me!) I loved the first line, the sudden simple statement of the horse ploughing forwards through the silence was wonderfully uncluttered language-wise and very effective. Right from the start I was filled with questions; is it a ghost? Does it carry a rider? Where are we? The symbolism of the horse is something I’ve been thinking about a lot since reading this which is wonderful; I love stories that leave you asking more questions than they answer. Barely a paragraph in and I’m already eagerly reading further because my curiosity has been piqued so intently! In the beginnings I did think either the horse or Faramir was a ghost of some sort; the collision, the way he is injured and yet not injured all at once…questions that only begin to get answered as we near the end of our glimpse into this world.

The sex-scene I thought was very well done; rough-but-not-too-rough and Faramir’s strange exhaustion mingled with Aragorn’s insistence on silence was a very heady mix; it seems no matter how these two come together (oh what a dreadful unintended pun!) it always has some beauty in it somewhere, in this case beauty with the edge of sadness, a sense of ending, of pain and fear, and a desperate longing and perhaps love. I also like the use of slightly more graphic language/words, they really add a rawness to the events, a more realistic edge in the midst of this shadowy place we find our pair. You never fail to capture something both entirely new and different and yet familiar in the way you bring these two together and let us into the miasma of their emotions for so brief a time :) The story is so sad, fundamentally, but even with the pain and darkness there is a brief, if hidden, burst of light, a release, even if all Faramir can feel is exhaustion, and all Aragorn can think about in the moment is silence.

When I began to realise where this was happening and what was really going on I was stuck between smiling at such an original and well-done idea and being envious that I didn’t think of it first :P Seriously, I love where you went with this, and I do love those stories that seemingly come out of nowhere and take you on such a wonderfully different journey even when writing them. I’ve been trying to branch out a little with story ideas and themes lately and I really was gobsmacked while reading this because it’s the sort of thing I’ve been trying to do (theme-wise I mean, and also I’m talking about works-in-progress I have piled up on my computer, ha) and argh I really don’t know what I’m trying to say but this beautiful story really hit the nail on the head with everything that’s been inspiring me lately and I love it love it love it! Thank you so much for sharing, and I wish I could actually leave a more coherent comment but I really did adore this and my mind is positively brimming with inspiration now so hooray!

How are you? How has your summer gone? I hope everything’s been lovely! :)

Eora    12 September 2011, 21:57    #

Ohhh…. lovely! I’m speechless as ever with the way you render this pairing, the ethereal note that runs all through, the intensity of their emotions and actions, the way you convey their feeling for each other in a few words or gestures… I loved all of it here! And sad though the ending seems to be, in a way I felt Aragorn was giving Faramir what he needed.

There was such a poignancy in that request for no more healing and the brief mention of Mithrandir. It seems to add layers to the story, an entire backstory in fact, that perhaps events have happened that have left Faramir in a state where only Aragorn can help him.

Thank you for a lovely piece!

Minx    13 September 2011, 19:23    #

Oh, no! Major review reply failure! :(

I was so certain that I had responded but obviously only done so in my head. I’m sorry.

Oh, Eora and Minx thank you! I don’t know why I so often seem to end up writing semi-supernatural stuff. Or, in this case, going all in. I think there’s something about Faramir that just sets all that mystical dust swirling in my head. Eeh, so to speak.

This story was not intended to be angsty. (Hehe, I don’t know… I probably failed miserably.) And I wasn’t aiming for sorrowful either, I think. I set out with the intention of exploring what would happen if, instead of bringing Faramir back to ‘the light’, Aragorn found himself being pulled deep into Faramir’s world of ‘darkness’. And there was so overwhelmed and captivated by what he encountered that he found that he was not willing to go back. And in the background (in the Houses of Healing) we have Gandalf realising that the healing process has gone awfully wrong. Or taken a different turn, from Aragorn’s perspective.

And I know it seems like they will be separated with Faramir’s final ‘giving in’, but I’m not sure it is that simple. Because I think Aragorn has a choice in this one, and I’m not so certain he will choose the light.

As for the meaning of the horse. I’ll leave that up to you to decide ;)

Lots of love to you both!

Geale    9 January 2012, 21:23    #

Ha, you don’t think I forgot you, do you? Wouldn’t dream of it… it’s just, some authors/stories I tend to savour for a special moment. Like a good chocolate you leave lying in the cupboard for a while, simply being happy about having it. No reason to eat it all at once:)

Anyway, I think you’re the queen of intros. Your beginnings are always so very captivating and so intriguing that a reader can’t help being thrown right into the story. That horse was such a powerful and poignant way to start the story. (“I looked, and there before me was a pale horse! Its rider was named Death, and Hades was following close behind him.” So, much foreshadowing going on here.)

You present us with a lot of questions: What’s happening? When is what happening? Where is it happening? And most importantly: What the heck is going on here?

I like the surreal feel, the slight shift of reality that never feels quite right. It’s very subtly done, which makes most of the effect IMO. It’s never too far off the middle, never unrecognizable, but it’s neither the characters’ nor the reader’s comfort zone. It leaves you with a slight unease, a little on edge. And that makes you read on. And on.

And man, that story is amazing. And I’m gushing once again.

(Also, I guess I have to read “Swordspoint” sometime.)

Michelle    27 April 2012, 23:39    #

Oh my gosh, I had (almost) forgotten about this story! I’m delighted to find that you read it and thrilled that you liked it!

Yes, I suppose there is some dying going on here, in one way or another, but for Aragorn and Faramir that’s not necessarily a bad thing. For the rest of Middle-earth, of course, it will have some dire consequences, but I suspect that the boys are beyond caring at this point. And I said above that a choice lies with Aragorn… Perhaps that is so, but ultimately, I think the end is decided by Gandalf. Perhaps :)

When you love something, let it go.

Thank you so much for reading.

Geale    20 May 2012, 09:17    #

I love the idea of “the shadows” being an actual place where people can stay, like a certain dimension in space. As in this is happening not in Faramir’s head, but they’d fallen through or been sucked into or whatever, into a different plane of existence, like a broken and warped reflection of the world of the living. Kind of like the dimension that Frodo falls into when he puts on the Ring. At least that’s the perception this story leaves me with. It’s just so much spookier and gloomier and cooler than simply going nuts xD

I feel not only is the story great in its own right, the originality and the beautiful turns of the language – it actually adds to the original. I always felt that LOTR could’ve gone a step further in painting the horrors that would unfold if the darkness prevailed – and this story very well fills in the gap. There’s madness and fogginess, and things make sense only about 85% of the time, which is exactly the way it should be, I think. It’s like the darkness eats away, like acid, at the very fabric of the universe.

It was a difficult read – enjoyable but difficult specifically for the reason that it draws you in so much, and the theme is not a pleasant one. It was like wading through a swamp, in circles, breathin on the toxic vapours – you realise you don’t fully understand, and somehow that’s very cool, you are fine to not understand, you just keep wading on and on.

And most curious of all, towards the end I come to share their desire that they be left where they are and never dragged out. Because if they are “saved”- then how the hell are they going to live with what they’d done? How will they ever be Steward and King?

December    5 July 2012, 10:14    #

Oh, December, thank you so much!

You know, I never once linked this shadow world to the one Frodo experiences when he uses the Ring! However, I do appreciate the idea of it (whichever one) being an actual place. Maybe because in such a universe, where such ultimate Evil exists, it seems to me that a final death is too ‘simple’ a concept. Indeed, Tolkien’s universe is full of afterlives and ancestors’ halls and the like. So why could not someone slip out of life’s grasp but not (or never) walk into the waiting arms of death? And why could not someone else actually choose to do the same? If they thought that they might gain something from it…

I’m very pleased you liked this, and that you don’t feel the necessity to call the boys back to life upon finishing it. I’m quite sure they would not listen. Or, perhaps, even hear you.

Geale    18 July 2012, 20:39    #

You know, I’m no Middle-earth scholar, so can’t speak with authority on the matter, but at least basing on my personal perception of the text, it seemed there was this “shadow”-world of sorts, as sort of an in-between plane of existence. A dimension in which things exist in their true form – like Frodo could see Glorfindel shinin with white light during the scene at the ford, showing that in truth Glorfindel was more powerful and generally more than what he seemed to the “naked eye”. And when Frodo was wounded, I remember him being described as growing paler and as if thinner, as if he was slipping moe from the mortal corporeal world into this shadow world – like there could actually be a physical transition of an entity from one dimension to another. And that’s pretty much what happened to the Nazgul, isn’t it? They were more substantial in the shadow world than they were in the mortal world. Whether this is one universal plane into which everyone slips, or whether each person has their own shadow-world, that’s a question. Perhaps different spells created separate alternative planes, and the Ring had its one dimension, into which both the Nazgul and Frodo slipped (as a side note, I wonder what Gollum looked like in his shadow form, spooky thought!). Anyway, Faramir’s fever was connected ot the Ring as well, wasn’t it? What with the black breath, so maybe he and Aragorn just got themselves sucked into one corner of this plane? Not that it matters too much, not for the plot of this particular story I guess not – but the idea definitely gave me an extra spooky-factor when reading this :)

Well, I wouldn’t mind them being taken back to the world of the living, provided they can be not only taken back, but properly healed. And it’s ust that the latter does not seem entirely probable. And again, wouldn’t it be plain awkward? XD

And I can entirely see why they, at least in their current state, are convinced they should stay where they are. It is akin to being on drugs or mentally ill, I would imagine, when your mind operates according to a completely different logic. I can’t really speak from personal experience here, having never really been either, but recently read an account by a mentally unwell lady, and it’s really creepy, it’s like she lives in a world all of her own, among other people, but in truth her mind is someplace else. So I guess it is a real place in whichever case, because so long as you are in it, to you, it exists. Ok, that’s about as much philosophy as my brain is capable of on a Saturday morning. Just wanted to say once more that I’ve enjoyed been moved by this story, and find it in a good way an original take on a popular topic.

December    4 August 2012, 01:15    #

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About the Author


Geale

Greetings,

This is me and this is where all of my Faramir stories are posted. I write mostly Faramir/Aragorn, but like to toy with other pairings as well. Hopefully, you will find something you like!

If you should feel like it, visit my livejournal Wildwood or find me at FanFiction.net or contact me via email: wildwood@live.se

Have a pleasant stay, wherever you end up on your journey.