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10 December 2011 | 7357 words
Aragorn and the rest of the party arrive in Minas Tirith to find the Steward dead and Faramir gravely injured. Written to satisfy a request from a friend for some Aragorn/Faramir hurt/comfort, and part of the ‘Testing’ AU which you can find in my LiveJournal if you care to read what comes before this.
Minas Tirith erupted in excitement and relief at the return of their Captain, oblivious to the ragged group of strangers who had arrived with him. Aragorn noted that as much as Boromir might enjoy having everyone’s attention in more private settings, at the moment he pushed his way through the cheering crowd, taking no notice of their shouts and greetings. The signs of Mordor’s pressure on Gondor had confronted them as they neared the city: fields trampled, huts and villages empty and burned, bridges destroyed, and with each grim scene they passed Boromir’s silent, simmering rage had visibly intensified until not even the hobbits would say anything for fear of unleashing it.
At the moment, he had no time for the crowds or their rejoicing, but made his way with unwavering determination to the nearest guard post, where the four guards immediately recognized him, but retained their decorum and snapped to attention.
“Captain Boromir, sir!”
He waved his hand at them. “At ease. Where is my father? I need to be taken to him immediately.”
The guards frowned and looked everywhere but at Boromir.
“Where is he?” he demanded again.
“Sir,” one of the guards answered finally. “Your father’s advisors will want to speak to you. I’ll have them summoned to the throne room immediately.”
Boromir growled. “I don’t want to talk to my father’s advisors. I want to talk to my father!”
Aragorn spotted the approach of a higher-ranking soldier who had obviously heard the discussion and stepped between Boromir and the younger guards.
“Lord Boromir,” he said quietly.
“Where is the Steward?” he asked, his voice a low rumble that insisted upon an immediate reply.
“Lord Boromir, the Steward is dead, sir. You are now our Steward.”
Boromir stared at him blankly for a moment, forcing himself to piece together the information that had just been given to him. Aragorn and the others waited, far enough away that they could not hear most of the conversation, or would not have been able to if Legolas hadn’t been doing their listening for them. Aragorn suspected he would not have had to hear the conversation to know what had been said when Boromir’s shoulders slumped and his face lost all color. He slid off his horse and walked forward to stand just behind Boromir, who turned to him with stunned eyes.
Boromir spun back on the soldier. “Where is my brother?”
Aragorn only had to see the expression on the soldier’s face to know what the answer was going to do to Boromir as well as to him.
“He is alive,” the healer said, as the two men followed him through the dimly lit halls of the House of Healing. “But I do not expect it will be much longer.”
Boromir was glad for the dimness, as he was certain that there were tears in his eyes and he did not care to try to stop them.
“You must be able to do something.”
“Lord Boromir , your brother is beyond the skill of any healer…”
“Even the skills of the heir of Isildur?” Boromir asked suddenly.
The healer stopped and turned, for the first time taking a long, careful look at the dark-haired stranger following Boromir.
“My Lord,” the healer said, lowering his head. “Captain Faramir has spoken of you since his return from Rivendell.”
Boromir grasped Aragorn’s arm. “You healed me from three orc arrows that should have killed me. You can heal my brother.”
“I hope so,” Aragorn said, turning to the healer. “Take us to him, quickly, before he is beyond even my hands.”
The healer took them to a small room away from the noise and smell and chaos of the open halls. Fading sunlight from the window fell across a narrow bed with blood-streaked sheets. For a moment Aragorn barely recognized the young man, as pale and still as he was. Boromir shoved past him and grasped his brother’s hand, glaring at the healer.
“Why is he just lying here? Why isn’t anyone tending to him?”
“There are many wounded, my Lord,” the healer said quietly. “They are tending to those who may yet be saved. No one here can do any more for your brother.”
Aragorn stepped forward, and though Boromir kept a tight grip on his brother’s unmoving hand, he did not protest as Aragorn carefully pulled back the sheets and began gently peeling away bloody bandages.
“This is a burn,” Aragorn said, frowning as he examined Faramir’s side.
“Yes, sir,” the healer said.
“This didn’t happen in battle.”
Boromir looked up sharply as the healer shifted his feet before answering Aragorn.
“No. When the Steward found him so badly injured and near to death, he believed that the city was about to fall, and he… he wished to end his life, Lord Boromir, and to take your brother with him. The wizard Mithrandir was able to pull Faramir from the pyre, but not before he was burned.”
“And the Steward?”
“It was too late to save him, Lord Boromir.”
Aragorn continued stripping away the bandages. “These are arrow wounds. They’re badly inflamed. These arrowheads were removed?”
“Yes, but our enemies have taken to using arrowheads that are filthy, or poisoned, or both.”
Aragorn ran his hand over Faramir’s face. “He has been touched by the Nazgûl. I feel the Black Breath on him. Do you have athelas in your stores?”
“Kingsfoil, sir? We have some, but it is not often used.”
“Bring me whatever you have of it, and send anyone you can spare out to find some more. If any of those touched by the Black Breath are to survive, they need to be treated with it. Have someone bring me as much of it as you have on hand immediately, and some hot water and clean cloths.”
The healer nodded and departed. Boromir looked toward Aragorn anxiously.
“Can you help him?”
“Possibly. The burn isn’t deadly, and it appears that although he didn’t wear enough armor to stop these arrows, it was enough to keep them from penetrating deeply enough to kill him, but the wounds are badly infected and the arrowheads may have been poisoned… and the Black Breath has severely weakened him. He’s in grave danger, Boromir, but I’ll do what I can.”
Boromir looked down at his brother’s pale face, his hair dark with sweat and an unhealthy flush across his skin from fever.
“Aragorn, if you can save him, I swear to you that every man, woman, and child in Gondor will know that you are truly our rightful King.”
Aragorn looked up at him. “I can only do my best.”
The healer returned shortly with a pot of hot water, a basket of clean bandages, and several paper-wrapped packets of dried athelas. Aragorn investigated the herb skeptically, smelling and touching it.
“This is old and stale. It’s a start, but I need some that’s fresh.”
“We have several boys out searching for it now, my Lord.”
“Good. Leave us.”
When the healer had departed, Aragorn looked to Boromir again. The other man still sat at his brother’s side, his face drawn and tormented in its helplessness.
“You are not a healer. And I suspect you have little experience watching healers work.”
Boromir shook his head. “If I’m around a healer, they’re usually working on me, and I’m not paying attention to what they’re doing.”
Aragorn nodded grimly. “You may want to leave for a while.”
Boromir’s jaw clenched. “What makes you think I would leave my brother like this?”
“Because before I do anything else, I have to see to those arrow wounds before the infection kills him… and it will not be pleasant to watch.”
Boromir gave the other man a sharp look. “I’m staying right here.”
“Suit yourself,” Aragorn said, pulling a small, narrow blade from his pack. He walked to the torch burning on the wall and passed the blade through the flame several times, until it was quite hot. He returned to Faramir and studied the wound in his shoulder, which was red and ugly and crusted over.
“Are you sure you want to watch this?” Aragorn asked.
Boromir glared at him. Aragorn shrugged and, putting some of his weight on the wounded man’s chest in case he tried to move, set about prying the thin blade into the wound. Blood and pus flowed immediately, and Boromir’s face paled. As Aragorn continued to work, he scrambled to his feet and hurried away down the hall.
Aragorn chuckled softly. “I didn’t suspect he would last long.”
When the wound was bleeding freely and cleanly, he washed it with athelas and bandaged it, then moved on to the other wounds. He focused on his task, although he knew the pain was severe enough that even in the depths of his unconsciousness it was torment for the younger man. When he had finally finished opening and cleaning the arrow wounds, Faramir was soaked with sweat, his face tight and his skin almost gray in its paleness. Aragorn stroked his hair for a moment.
“I am finished hurting you for now, young one. Now, I must cleanse the touch of those foul creatures of darkness from you… and you must listen to me and fight against this as hard as you can.”
He took a clean cloth and set about washing Faramir with the fragrant athelas brew, cleaning the sweat and dirt from his face, washing the blood from his chest and stomach, working his way down the wiry legs and back up to carefully tip the younger man on his side and clean dried blood and grime from his back and buttocks. Faramir was thinner than he had been in Rivendell, and Aragorn wondered if he had made the wrong choice, sending the quiet young scholar back to war-torn Gondor instead of keeping him by his side. There was no time for such doubts, though, and he needed to be focused on Faramir in this moment, on his hands on the younger man’s skin, his soft words coaxing him back from the darkness. Finished washing him, he laid Faramir back down and pulled a clean sheet over him before taking the time to study his face again. Though his skin was still white, some of the unhealthy flush had faded, and some of the tightness of pain had left his features. He looked almost at rest now, but Aragorn knew that the wounds and the Black Breath could still claim him.
“Can you hear me now, Faramir? I believe you can. I know that it’s hard to come back to a body as injured and in pain as yours is, but if you don’t, I can’t help you. I did not expect to find you like this… I had hoped you would be strong and full of life and ready to welcome me to your city. And perhaps, Faramir, although I may presume too much, to welcome me to your bed… you cannot know how many times I’ve thought of you since you rode away from Rivendell that day. How many times I had thought of seeing your face when we rode through the gates…”
“I am sorry… my Lord…”
Aragorn’s eyes widened and he turned his eyes back to Faramir’s face. The gray eyes were still closed, but his lips moved, slowly and carefully.
“Sorry for what, Faramir?”
“Sorry… I was… not here… to greet you… as I should…”
“Hush,” Aragorn said, shaking his head. “Don’t be silly.”
“Boromir is alive and well, young one, but desperately afraid for you. You are badly injured, and you must work to fight this.”
“I will try… my Lord.”
“Good. I know you will. You can rest for a while now, Faramir, but I will wake you soon to make you drink some tea.”
Faramir smiled very slightly, and Aragorn felt him relax under his hands as he drifted off again. The young man was strong, much stronger than Aragorn had expected; he had anticipated that it would take days for Faramir to fight his way back to consciousness, if he ever did.
“You must have strength beyond what any of us know,” he said quietly.
“Not strength, my Lord… love… for my brother. And for you. Will not leave… either one of you.”
Aragorn smiled and kissed his forehead. When he looked up, Boromir was standing in the doorway, looking at him anxiously.
“I cannot promise you this, Boromir, but I think your brother will live.”
Boromir’s face lit up as Aragorn had never seen it. “Will he?”
“He spoke, just now.”
“What did he say?” Boromir demanded eagerly.
“That he loves you,” Aragorn said, smiling.
Boromir grinned, relief washing across his features. “Faramir… what can I do?”
“Why don’t you stay with him while he rests? There are many others who need healing and my services are needed. If he seems to be getting worse, come and find me immediately.”
“I won’t leave his side,” Boromir said, settling in beside his brother’s bed. “I don’t know how to thank you, Aragorn…”
“By serving Gondor as its Steward, just as you always have.”
Boromir lowered his head. “Yes… my Lord.”
“Boromir… if you must call me that in public, than you shall, but between the two of us, you will address me as Aragorn.”
A trace of a smirk touched Boromir’s mouth. “I may no longer address you as ‘filthy ranger’?”
“See to your brother,” Aragorn said, laughing. “There is much more for me to do this night.”
It was near dawn when Aragorn finally made his way back to Faramir’s room. Boromir, dozing in the chair by his brother’s bed, looked up and frowned at the sight of the older man, stumbling with exhaustion, blood and grime on his clothes and hands.
“What happened to you?”
Aragorn sighed. “Too many in need of healing, Boromir… there are more, but I have nothing left to offer them until I get some rest. How is Faramir?”
Boromir glanced down at his brother. “He seems to be resting, but his wounds look ugly.”
Aragorn frowned and sat down on the bed, drawing back the bandages. Boromir was right; the arrow wounds were swollen and hot. He swore quietly to himself. Boromir looked at him anxiously.
“What does he need?”
“His wounds need cleaned again. Is there more of the athelas…”
“Aragorn, should I get one of the other healers? You’re so tired your hands aren’t steady. And besides, you’re covered with… everything. You should bathe…”
Aragorn raised his head. “That’s an excellent idea, Boromir.”
The other man raised his eyebrows. “What, bathing?”
“Yes. For me and for Faramir. Soaking in some warm water with athelas steeping in it will help clean his wounds.”
Boromir stood. “I’ll have a tub brought in and filled with hot water right away. After that, I’m afraid, there are a number of people demanding my time… my father’s death has left a great deal of confusion and apparently it’s my duty to resolve it all.”
“I don’t envy you that task,” Aragorn said, shaking his head.
“When you are crowned, it will be our task,” Boromir said, meeting his eyes for a moment before stepping out into the hall.
Boromir’s orders apparently carried considerable weight, because within a few minutes two servants had arrived carrying a large wooden tub, and behind them a small parade of more servants bearing buckets of steaming water. Aragorn watched as they filled the tub, absently rubbing a handful of fresh athelas leaves between his hands. When they had completed their work, he dismissed them and locked the door after them. He tossed the fragrant leaves into the bath and quickly stripped off his own filthy clothes as well as Faramir’s bandages.
Looking at Faramir, he wondered for a moment if he should have had the servants assist him in moving the young man to the bath, but despite his exhaustion Faramir was lighter than he expected. His body, which Aragorn remembered from Rivendell as lean, was now thin and bruised; his time in Minas Tirith since his return must have been very hard on him indeed, and Aragorn cursed himself, knowing that Faramir’s loyalty to him had almost certainly provoked his father’s rage.
He stepped carefully into the bath and lowered both of them into the warm water, stirring the crisp scent of athelas rising with the steam. Faramir shifted and muttered to himself as his body was submerged. Aragorn settled back against the side of the tub and drew Faramir against him, the young man’s back against his chest, propping him up with his knees as Faramir’s head fell back on his shoulder. He sank down into the water, closing his eyes and feeling the warmth and the healing effects of the herb seeping through his chilled and weary body.
He had nearly dozed off when he felt Faramir stir against him. He snapped back to alertness and raised a hand to the young man’s chest, pulling him back as he tried to sit up.
“Easy, Faramir. It’s me.”
Faramir smiled and sank back into the water and back against Aragorn with a small sigh. “Thought I was dreaming.”
“All of this. You, finally being here in Gondor. My brother, back alive despite my fears. And you, naked in a tub with me.”
Aragorn chuckled at this. “I have no evil intentions, young one. You’re hurt and exhausted.”
“The pain is easing.”
“That’s the athelas, but it won’t last forever, and when its effect wears off you’ll wish you’d been more careful with yourself,” Aragorn warned, as Faramir shifted in his arms.
Faramir ignored him and gingerly pushed himself up until his head was level with Aragorn’s. This inconveniently placed the younger man almost entirely in Aragorn’s lap, and while he tried to ignore this, his cock did not seem to have any intention of doing so. Faramir tipped his head back, his forehead against Aragorn’s cheek.
“I feared neither you or Boromir would come back.”
“Boromir was injured, but he’s well now, and you will be too. I wouldn’t have expected you to recover from the Black Breath so quickly… Gandalf must have been right when he said the blood of Númenor was unusually strong in you.”
“Gandalf always did favor me over my brother. He was the only one, though.”
Aragorn smiled and pressed his face into the soft curve of Faramir’s neck and shoulder. “Hmm. I must say that I definitely favor you over your brother.”
“I have never been naked in a bath with your brother.”
“Oh? I thought perhaps it was one of your standard healing techniques.”
Aragorn could not resist pressing his lips to Faramir’s skin and licking at it. Faramir inhaled sharply.
“No, Faramir… this is just for you.”
His hand was still on Faramir’s chest, and he could feel the young man’s heart beating rapidly as he arched against Aragorn, who could not help but marvel at his young partner’s exquisite sensitivity. After witnessing and participating in the rather rough entertainment that Boromir and Legolas engaged in almost constantly, Faramir resting easily in his arms and shivering at just the touch of Aragorn’s lips on his skin was delicious and wondrous.
“You’re thinking about my brother,” Faramir said.
Aragorn frowned. “What?”
“I could tell. What were you thinking about him?”
Remembering Gandalf’s warning that Faramir knew and saw things other men did not, Aragorn decided to speak truthfully, if not openly.
“He and the elf, Legolas, have become rather… close during our travels.”
“I thought my brother didn’t like elves.”
He likes fucking them senseless at every opportunity, Aragorn thought. “He has become… fond of this one.”
“Hmm. I hear elves are much stronger and more resistant to damage than mortals.”
“So Boromir has found a companion that will tolerate the kind of rough treatment he enjoys?”
“He has found a companion that seems to crave rough treatment.”
“Then he should be quite content,” Faramir said. Then he stiffened. “Aragorn?”
“The pyre… was my father burned? I remember very little…”
Aragorn sighed. “He wished for death, Faramir. And he got what he wished for.”
Faramir nodded. “I thought I heard the healers speak of that, but I wasn’t sure if I was dreaming.”
“Does his death grieve you?”
“It would have if I thought I would have to stand and take the title of Steward. But Boromir is here, and he will make a great Steward. The people of Gondor have long looked to him as their leader.”
“I only hope one day they will accept me.”
“They will, my Lord. Gondor has waited a long time for its peace, and a long time for its king.”
“There is no peace yet, Faramir. The Ring…”
Faramir leaned back and closed his eyes, smiling. “The Ring will fall. I see it falling.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Faramir did not answer him; he seemed to be dozing off, and Aragorn remembered he was supposed to be healing the young man, not chatting with him.
“Don’t,” Faramir said, as Aragorn began to move away. “I was very comfortable.”
“The water is growing cold,” Aragorn said.
Faramir shifted, his buttocks pressed against Aragorn’s arousal. “There is a bed over there.”
“Faramir, you’re injured.”
Faramir turned to meet his eyes. “I’m alive.”
Aragorn smiled. “True. But I’m exhausted, and so are you, and your brother will be back eventually.”
Faramir winced. “I don’t suppose he would appreciate finding us like that.”
“No… probably not. Let’s see about getting you dried off and back to bed and I’ll fix your bandages…”
“Will you stay?”
“Yes, I will. I need a bit of sleep almost as badly as you do.”
The athelas had eased the younger man’s pain and refreshed him enough that he was able to climb out of the tub and stand with Aragorn’s assistance while he was dried off, but by the time he was back in bed with his wounds bandaged, the immediate effects of the herb had worn off, and he was ruefully aware that Aragorn’s words about being careful with himself had been quite true. Aragorn watched him with concern as he shifted gingerly on the bed.
“Are you in pain?”
“Yes… but that’s to be expected, isn’t it?”
He smiled, and Aragorn relaxed somewhat. Faramir motioned to the bed.
“You’re exhausted. You said so yourself. Lie down… there’s room for both of us, as long as you don’t mind being close.”
Aragorn pulled on his breeches and stretched out next to him, glancing at the door to make sure it was still locked. Reassured that they would not be disturbed, at least not without warning, he carefully wrapped an arm around Faramir’s chest, making sure to avoid the large burn on his side. Faramir yawned and arranged himself to be pressed a bit closer to Aragorn, who lay for a moment, studying the still-damp coppery curls illuminated by the early morning sun through the narrow window, before dozing off.
He woke to someone knocking on the door. A quick glance at the window told him that it was mid-afternoon, and he scrambled out of bed, trying not to jar Faramir. He opened the door to find Boromir standing in the hall, regarding him with some amusement.
“You are rather under-dressed, for a healer.”
“My clothes from last night are filthy. They should be thrown away.”
“I know,” Boromir said, and handed Aragorn a pile of folded clothes.
“Something decent for you to wear. Rumor spreads fast, and there are quite a few people who have heard about your return, but I forbade the healers to tell anyone where you were, and my orders are very rarely disobeyed. Still, word has gotten out, and while very few people have access to the Houses of Healing, there will be many waiting to see you when you leave here.”
“I’m not leaving here until I’m sure that Faramir is recovering properly,” Aragorn said.
Boromir raised his eyebrows, glancing past him into the room. “How is he?”
Aragorn stepped aside and motioned him in, surprised by the change in Boromir’s manner toward him in the past twenty-four hours. He was reminded of the reason for this change when he saw how gently Boromir’s hand rested on his younger brother’s shoulder. Faramir blinked and looked up at him sleepily.
“Oh… hello, Boromir.”
Boromir grinned broadly. “You’re awake.”
“I rather wish I wasn’t,” he said, wincing.
“I’ll brew some tea to help with the pain,” Aragorn said. “I think he’s going to be fine, Boromir…”
“Thanks to you,” Boromir said. “The healers had left him for dead; if you hadn’t helped him, I would be mourning his death instead of dealing with the mess my father left for me to manage.”
He realized what he’d said and looked toward Faramir, alarmed.
“He knows,” Aragorn said.
Faramir nodded. Boromir squeezed his uninjured shoulder.
“All right, then. I must get back. I didn’t even know how many advisors my father had until all of them wanted to talk to me. I never thought I’d say this, Aragorn, but I hope that you hurry up and claim your throne soon, so they have someone else to bother.”
He stepped out, closing the door behind him. Aragorn stood for a moment, still holding the clothes Boromir had given him.
“You’re not going to put those on quite yet, are you?” Faramir asked.
Aragorn smiled and reached to lock the door before laying the clothes down on a chair.
“Not quite yet, no.”
He sat down on the bed beside Faramir and peeled away the bandages from his shoulder. “These wounds look much better. How badly do they hurt?”
“It’s the burn that hurts the most,” Faramir admitted.
“Burns are painful, but I have some salve that will help protect the skin and ease the pain if you would like me to apply some.”
Aragorn rolled the younger man onto his side and examined the burned skin; the burn was large, but the damage to the skin was not deep, and though it would scar it should heal completely. He retrieved the salve from his pack and carefully applied it over the burn. Faramir squirmed at the pain at first, but as the salve began to soothe the injury he relaxed.
“That’s much better. Thank you.”
“Hmm,” Aragorn said absently, his fingers trailing downward from the burned skin to stroke over Faramir’s hip. Faramir exhaled slowly and shifted closer.
“You’re still injured, Faramir.”
He glanced back and gave Aragorn a sharp look. “And? I’m alive. You’re alive. But either one of us might not be tomorrow. You’re here now, and I don’t want to waste any more time.”
Aragorn chuckled, having been thinking very similar thoughts himself. He traced his fingers lightly over Faramir’s skin, moving to lay down beside him. Faramir made a small, impatient sound.
“Patience, young one.”
“If we both survive the days to come, we’ll have plenty of time for patience. I don’t want to be patient now.”
“I don’t either, but I’m not going to risk harming you.”
Faramir rolled onto his back and looked up at him, and to Aragorn’s surprise he grasped the older man’s hand and led it downward.
“I thought your hands had the power to heal.”
“I don’t recall that part of you needing healing,” Aragorn said, closing his eyes and making an entirely futile attempt to ignore how the soft skin under his palm was stirring and hardening.
“But it does.”
“Oh? What sort of injury have you suffered there, young Faramir?”
He opened his eyes to find Faramir staring up at him, smiling breathlessly.
“Can’t you see it? You must not have examined me very closely.”
Aragorn laughed, and Faramir shifted his hips, seeking friction against Aragorn’s hand. “You are very impatient.”
“I’ve been waiting a long time.”
“Have you?” Aragorn asked absently, tracing the length of the younger man’s cock with his fingers and watching the gray eyes drift closed with pleasure.
“A very long time.”
“How have you kept yourself occupied ll that time?”
Faramir smiled. “Thinking of you.”
“Thinking of you… and…”
Aragorn removed his hand. “And what?”
Faramir scowled. “Don’t stop!”
“Then answer my question. Thinking and doing what?”
Faramir inhaled sharply and glanced at him with an uncertain expression. Aragorn raised his hand to touch his shoulder reassuringly.
“Show me… I have seen your pleasure before, haven’t I?”
Faramir nodded, his face flushing as he was suddenly overwhelmed with a memory of lying stretched out in Aragorn’s bed in Rivendell, his legs wrapped around Aragorn’s waist in a desperate grip, his hands clutching at the sheets, his body clutching Aragorn’s hard length, hearing nothing but the soft voice and slow, stroking hand coaxing him toward his peak.
“You, and only you,” he murmured.
“I would see it again.”
Faramir closed his eyes and reached down to take himself in his hand; the flash of memory had been enough to bring him to aching hardness in moments. He stroked slowly, feeling Aragorn’s gaze on him, hoping fervently that he liked what he saw. Aragorn’s body was pressed against his side, and he smiled slightly at the feeling of Aragorn’s cock hardening against his hip. With this evidence of the older man’s arousal, Faramir found himself moving more confidently, shifting his hips to give Aragorn a better view of his hand as it stroked his cock.
He realized Aragorn’s breathing was uneven, and he opened his eyes to find the other man staring down at him, eyes wide and darkened to nearly black, face flushed. Aragorn’s hand came down over his, stilling it.
“I failed to properly inspect this injury you say you have,” he said.
“You should look very closely,” Faramir said, grinning.
Aragorn slid downward, pressing Faramir’s arms gently down to his sides, trailing down the younger man’s chest with his lips and tounge, carefully skirting the wounds. Faramir gasped and would have bucked up against him, but Aragorn’s hands held him down.
“Be still, young one. You’ll hurt yourself.”
He traced the lines of ribs with his tongue, thinking again that Faramir was far too thin, then moved down over the lean torso until Faramir’s cock was hard against his cheek and his lips found tight, coppery curls. Faramir whispered something, pleading.
“I don’t see any injury here,” Aragorn murmured.
“No?” Faramir asked, his voice rough. “Then why does it ache so?”
Aragorn smiled and raised his head for a moment to enjoy the sight of Faramir stretched out above him, breathing hard, fingers tugging at the sheets.
“I think I may have a cure,” he said, and lowered his head to lick his way up the length of Faramir’s cock. The younger man’s response was a soft, breathless moan, trailing up into a wordless exclamation as Aragorn’s mouth took him in, lips and tongue caressing, soft and warm. He tried to keep still, to resist the urge to thrust up into that welcoming mouth, but when he did Aragorn’s hands moved swiftly to press his hips back down against the bed as he writhed. Aragorn had not done this before, in Rivendell, and something in the back of Faramir’s head told him that he should not be allowing his king to engage in such an act, that instead it should be him pleasing his king, but the long strokes of that masterful tongue and the soft pressure of those lips and the wet heat buried his thoughts in a haze of pleasure until he could not have recalled, at that exact moment, whether he was in Minas Tirith or Rivendell or somewhere else entirely, could not think at all, and he only distantly heard his own breathless moans.
Then the heat was suddenly gone, and he found Aragorn beside him again, smiling down and him, and before Aragorn could hold him down he arched up off the bed and met his mouth in a long-awaited kiss. Aragorn made a small sound of surprise and pressed Faramir back down, but he followed him, their mouths still joined, the kiss so determined that it stole Faramir’s breath and left him dizzy. Aragorn’s hands were everywhere, stroking through his hair, over his cheeks, down his throat, back up to cup his face as he kissed him. He winced in spite of himself as his wounded shoulder was jarred, and Aragorn sat up immediately, guilty and upset.
“I hurt you. I told you this wasn’t…”
Faramir sighed. “If you don’t get back to what you were doing, I’ll have to do something, and then I will hurt myself.”
Aragorn smiled in spite of himself, and although the healer’s voice in his head told him that the proper thing to do was to step away and let the young man rest, most of the rest of his brain had stopped working entirely, its attempts at logic completely erased by the sight of Faramir stretched out beneath him, wide-eyed and almost dazed, looking up at him.
“Please… my Lord.”
That was the last straw; the combination of reverence and breathless demand in Faramir’s voice obliterated whatever resistance Aragorn might have had, and he lowered himself with his arms, careful to keep his weight off Faramir’s chest, and kissed him again as their lower bodies came together, Faramir’s legs wrapping around Aragorn’s to pull him closer. With only Aragorn’s breeches between them, Faramir twisted his hips, desperate for the friction against his cock, but the motion sent a flash of pain through the burn across his side and he fell still, holding his breath and hoping Aragorn wouldn’t notice.
Aragorn did notice, but he didn’t pull away, although his eyes were watching Faramir’s face closely.
“You must stay still, Faramir.”
“Well, one of us has to move, or I’ll go mad,” Faramir said, as the pain eased.
Aragorn smiled. “The impatience of youth.”
He rolled to the side and rose to his feet, and Faramir was about to protest until he realized Aragorn was tugging off his breeches. He tossed them to the side and returned to the bed, settling himself between Faramir’s knees.
“What do you want, young one?”
Faramir glanced away for a moment, reluctant to speak his desires in front of his king, but the need overcame his hesitance, assisted by Aragorn’s hands tracing gently over his skin.
“I want you to take me. And don’t say you don’t want to hurt me… I know you can be very gentle… when you wish to.”
He grinned at that, and Aragorn returned the smile as he leaned down to kiss him again.
“As you wish.”
“I know there must be some sort of oil in your healer’s kit there.”
Aragorn raised an eyebrow. “You are impatient.”
He rose and returned to the bed with a small jar of amber-colored oil in his hand. Opening it, he poured a generous amount into his hand, and Faramir closed his eyes, inhaling the familiar, crisp herbal scent; it was the same oil Aragorn had kept in his room in Rivendell.
“You remember that smell, do you?” Aragorn asked, chuckling.
Faramir would have answered, but at that moment Aragorn’s slick hand slid easily over the length of his cock, and his words faltered into a moan. Aragorn stroked him slowly, but within a few moments Faramir was thrusting into his hand and grasping at his arms.
Aragorn froze, alarmed. “Did I hurt you?”
“No. But I want… not yet…”
Realizing the younger man was shaking, on the edge of coming undone just from his touch, Aragorn waited a moment for him to calm somewhat before he reached for him again; this time his oiled hand slid downward, while the other pinned Faramir’s hips to the bed in preparation for the reaction he knew was coming. In Rivendell, Aragorn had been amazed and delighted by the younger man’s sensitivity, and the time that had passed since then seemed only to have heightened it. He took his time preparing him, time to properly appreciate the beautiful responsiveness, the way that even with Aragorn’s free hand holding him down he writhed against Aragorn’s fingers as they slicked and stretched him, the breathless moans that escaped him despite his best efforts to stay quiet, the way his body trembled under Aragorn’s restraining hand.
“Relax, Faramir. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”
He felt the young man breathe deeply, trying to steady himself, more out of fear than Aragorn would stop than out of any actual worry about harming himself. Aragorn smiled and ran his hand soothingly over Faramir’s hip, stilling his other hand until he felt Faramir’s body relax its tight grip on his fingers.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
Faramir nodded, eyes closed as if afraid that if he opened them, Aragorn might vanish. Aragorn moved both hands to grasp Faramir’s hips, drawing a moan that was somewhere between disappointment and anticipation. Aragorn found that keeping all of his attention on not hurting Faramir was beneficial for both of them, for if he had allowed himself to focus instead on the feeling of his cock pushing slowly into the willing body beneath him, it would all have been over much too quickly. Still, by the time he was deeply buried he had to force himself to keep still and hold back for a moment while he regained his control, which was not helped by the way Faramir whispered his name among broken, pleading fragments of words as he grasped at the sheets and arched up against the intense, overwhelming feeling of Aragorn’s hard length filling him.
“Shh… Faramir, be still…”
“Then move,” Faramir gasped.
Aragorn could not disobey such an order, though he kept enough of his wits about him to be careful of Faramir’s injuries as he lowered himself over him. Faramir’s legs came up eagerly to wrap around his, tightening to pull Aragorn deeper; his hands grasped Aragorn’s arms where they rested on either side of him, tense with the strain of holding Aragorn’s body to keep his weight off Faramir’s wounds as he drew back and pressed into him again. The motion drew a long, low sound from the young man, and his body tightened almost painfully around Aragorn’s cock, but after a moment he relaxed again, and this time when Aragorn drew back and thrust, Faramir was rising to meet him, all resistance gone.
“Faramir…” he gasped.
“Please… more… Aragorn…”
For a dizzy moment, he wondered why his name in Faramir’s voice sounded so strange. Then he realized that Faramir had never called him that when they were together like this; in intimate moments it had always been, “my Lord,” even after Aragorn had convinced him to address him by his name at other times. But then, Faramir had never demanded him this way, digging his heels into Aragorn’s thighs, pleading for more.
“Tell me what you want, Faramir,” he said, eager to hear Faramir speak again in that rough, breathless voice.
“Me? What do you want from me?”
Aragorn held back, withdrawing almost completely, feeling Faramir struggle in vain to push himself down onto him. “Tell me.”
“Want you to…”
“Want you… to fuck me. Now. Please, Aragorn!”
Aragorn didn’t think he’d ever heard that word leave the young man’s mouth before, despite how freely most soldiers used it, and hearing it from Faramir now sent such desire flashing through him that he had to fight the urge to slam back into him with all the force he could muster. Faramir might have wanted that, but Aragorn would not risk hurting him, so his next thrust was hard, but controlled. Faramir cried out something that might have been a word, clutching at him, and there was no stopping from there, no more discussion, only Aragorn’s steady thrusts deep into Faramir’s very willing body, Faramir’s hands grasping blindly as his head tipped back and his eyes closed, Faramir’s voice moaning his name each time he drove into him. Aragorn realized he could not hold back much longer and moved to reach for Faramir’s cock, but even as he did, he felt Faramir’s body tense and arch underneath him, heard the low moan building as it rose in his chest, and then Faramir was shaking as he came, Aragorn’s name falling apart into a wordless cry. Aragorn could only watch him like this for a moment, and then he had to thrust into him again, feeling his body tighten around him, and all thought and reason melted into the flood that crashed through him.
He rolled to the side as his arms gave out and fell beside Faramir, still trembling with the force of his relief. As soon as he could put words together, he propped himself up and looked at Faramir carefully.
“Faramir? Are you hurt?”
The young man’s eyes were still closed, but he smiled slightly. “I have never been better, my Lord. Aragorn. Whichever you prefer. There are other things I would call you, but I won’t… not yet.”
Aragorn stroked the damp curls away from his face. “As long as they aren’t insults.”
Faramir grinned and shook his head. “No. Although I thought of a few while you were gone.”
Aragorn frowned and looked down over the young man’s thin, pale body. “While I was gone, Faramir…”
“I don’t want to talk about that,” Faramir said, his smile vanishing. “Please. Don’t ask me.”
Aragorn lowered his head and kissed Faramir’s forehead. “I won’t… not now.”
“Thank you,” Faramir said, relaxing again as Aragorn ran a gentle hand over his chest.
“You should sleep some more. You need rest.”
“What will you do?”
“I’ll put on those clothes your brother brought me and go see to the others I was working to heal last night. I believe all of them will be much recovered, but I should make sure. And your brother, I’m sure, has much to discuss with me.”
“I see,” Faramir said, opening his eyes to look at him. “And what will you do after that?”
“Well, I will have to come find you, since by that time the healers will have obeyed my orders to move you back to your own rooms, since I am most concerned for your well-being and intend to see to your recovery personally.”
Faramir raised an eyebrow. “They might think that a bit odd.”
“They will most likely assume that I’m taking personal charge of your care because I’m afraid of what your brother will do to me if you didn’t do well. And I suspect they’ll do anything I ask if it will make Boromir stop storming through the halls growling at them.”
“The pressure of everything that’s happened must be weighing on him,” Faramir said, concerned. “Perhaps you can help him to manage some of it.”
“I’ll help him with whatever duties to the kingdom I can,” Aragorn said, trying not to laugh, “but I’m quite sure there’s a certain blond elf waiting around somewhere and hoping that your brother has plenty of pent-up stress to take out on him tonight.”
“Perhaps having access to something to relieve his tension will improve his mood,” Faramir suggested hopefully.
“It does…” Aragorn said, grinning. “But only for about ten minutes.”
“I think my mood will be improved for much longer than that,”
Faramir replied, yawning as his eyes began to drift closed.
“Rest now. The healers will arrange to have you moved before nightfall.”
Faramir nodded sleepily. “Will you look out for my brother?”
“Of course I will.”
“And I’ll see you again?”
“You’ll see me tonight, when I’m naked in your bed.”
Faramir smiled. “Then I’ll see you then, my Lord. Aragorn. Whichever you prefer.”
In moments he had dozed off. Aragorn rose, pulled the sheet over the sleeping man, and prepared to step back out into the entirely different world that awaited him outside the door.
Continue to Kings, Stewards, and Elves.
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