This story is rated «R», and carries the warnings «Manslash & interspecies, dark, and non-con.».
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03 April 2005 | 5136 words
or blame also go to: aprilkat, AKA “Healing Mage”; caras_galadhon, AKA “Elven Lady”; and most especially and fittingly in this case, savageseraph, AKA “Death to Bunnies”! Thanks also to travelingcarrot for encouragement late last night! Éowyn is for her.
All of the above to say: it is NOT my fault.
Title: In the Darkness Bind Them
Genre: AU (mostly following my AU principles, if in a somewhat dark and twisted fashion, explained on my link page here.
Disclaimer: Totally made up, totally not true, all my imagination, sexual fantasy, yep, mine I’m afraid.
Rating/Warnings: R/adult. Manslash & interspecies, dark, and non-con. Unusually dark for me. Less is more in terms of details so more is suggested than shown. No specifics on pairings or plot beforehand, but someone takes the Ring. And you know what that means.
Note: The structure is a multiplying then decreasing drabble. The first section is 100 words long; each section after increases by another hundred until the seventh. Then each section decreases by 100 words. Um, I think I might have invented a new story form. Feel free to use if you like!
Feedback: Always Appreciated! Some explanation of what that means to me is here if you wish to see it
Faramir rode through the Gates followed by the men he had been able to bring out of the carnage of the war fought in Ithilien and Osgiliath. The sun was sinking behind mountains, shadows moving down the streets of the city. He blinked, tired and aching, reeking of old blood and sweat. He forced a smile for the children and women throwing yellow flowers at them. His horse’s hooves struck hollow sounds from the stained stones of the street. Banners, white and gold, snapped in the wind above his head, banners with seven stars that showed the King had returned.
Sending his men home, those who still had homes and family, Faramir stabled his weary horse with a last pat. He climbed to the Citadel. The Courtyard guards, clad in black and silver, were unchanged as was the dead Tree standing in the fountain. The white Hall lined with black columns was quiet until the red-robed figure turned, smiling, shouted a greeting, gold hair shining.
Strong arms wrapped around Faramir, pulling him close. Eyes shut, daring to relax for a moment, Faramir rested against Boromir’s strong body.
“We received your message with joy, my son.”
His father’s dry voice jolted Faramir. He stepped back, Boromir’s arm still wrapped around his waist. Faramir wondered at the court robes, rich layers flowing and sweet-scented, not the usual tunic and leggings under mail Boromir had always worn, but forgot to wonder as Denethor came forward, a dark shadow to Boromir’s red flame.
Faramir bowed and kissed the hand that wore the Steward’s ring.
“You have come in good time.”
Faramir stood, seeing the two small black-clad pages who came foward. His first thought was that they were sons of Gondor, but their feet, bare and large and hairy, were strange to him.
Faramir felt his breath stop as one approached, bearing a tray with goblets of wine, and looked up.
All sense of weariness and fear dropped away as Faramir drowned in the beauty of colour and line. Blue eyes and white skin shone against the dark hair and black velvet. As if in a dream, Faramir remembered a jewel his mother’d loved, a carving of pure whiteness against dark stone, but this creature was living art, a flush on lips and cheeks speaking of the blood pulsing within.
Faramir took one of the goblets, drained the rich draught which burned down his throat. Even as he finished the wine, he watched the page who flushed more deeply, stood back, head bowed.
“We feast tonight in honor of those who gave their lives, and to the return of the King. You must attend.”
Boromir shook Faramir, releasing him. He bit his lip, forcing his eyes from beauty to his father.
“You did not send the names in your message, father.”
“Go and prepare,” Denethor said, sinking back into Steward’s chair. “Your brother will tell you all. Let me rest.”
Faramir set the goblet down on the tray, followed his brother out of the hall.
Boromir spoke of the battle on the Pelennor, how Aragorn sailed to the relief of the city, too late to prevent the death of many, including Théoden and Éomer who faced the Witch King of Angmar and died despite all Gandalf could do to save them before he was struck down.
“News have come that many died in Mirkwood and Lothlorien,” Boromir said. “But that was foretold. The new age will be the Age of Men. We will long honor those who died to save our land, but our new King will bring us into a golden age.”
Boromir opened the door to Faramir’s room, waited.
“The pages,” Faramir asked. “What are they?”
Faramir stopped, shocked. “Halflings? From the dream?”
Boromir nodded. “Yes. I met them at Imladris. They accompanied us on our journey. They honour us with their service because their land was destroyed by Saruman.”
Faramir entered the quiet room. He should rejoice at the return of the King, but so much that was green with promise and hope in the last year lay in ashes in the new.
“I’ll send one to you when the feast is ready.” Boromir turned, shutting the door on Faramir.
Later that night, after the feast, Faramir dreamed.
Flame roars through forests, killing all life. Elves flee their ages-old home. Blood runs dark on stone floors. A silver jewel falls and breaks. Faramir sees a wave, huge and black, rising over the walls of the City. He tries to run, but is caught, pulled under, black water flooding his mouth and lungs, stifling his cries.
He twisted, clawing, but found himself in his bed, hands clenched around blankets, sweat chilling on his body. Faramir felt his heart pounding, heard the echo of his cries in the dream, one he’d often had as a child, sounding in his ears. But the other cries he now heard were real.
Pushing the bedding aside, he rose, the stone cold under his feet, and went to his door, listening a moment, then opening it. Darkness filled the halls but he knew them well from childhood.
Faramir walked down the hall, around a corner, following the sounds until he stumbled, his foot striking something small and warm, someone who cried out.
Faramir went to his knees, reaching out, hands touching trembling softness.
“Please kill me, please.” The low voice was ragged.
Shocked, Faramir strained to see, fumbling, grasping two small cold hands. A child suffering a nightmare as Faramir had so often done years ago?
“It’s all right, you’re safe,” Faramir said softly, pulling the shivering body closer, feeling soft skin under his hands.
Dim light revealed that he was holding one of the Halflings, clad only in a loose white nightrobe, curled in his arms. Footsteps behind brought Faramir around, crouching, one arm wrapped around the slim body.
Aragorn stood near, holding a candle, light from the open door behind him shining around the tall figure, gleaming in his hair. Faramir relaxed, smiled.
Fire stroked gold over Aragorn’s white shirt, lit his blue eyes.
Faramir remembered Aragorn, velvet-clad, standing beside the rare beauty of Éowyn, White Lady of Rohan, who blazed with him. Their light filled the great Hall. Here in the dark, wearing a loose shirt and leggings, Aragorn still glowed.
Kneeling, Aragorn handed Faramir the candle. He took it, shifted to allow Aragorn to lean forward, sliding his arms around the Halfling.
“He lost much in the war. I have tried to heal him, but still he suffers.”
Small hands clung to Faramir’s, pulling him off balance as Aragorn stood. Stumbling, Faramir dropped the candle, the flame twisting, then guttering.
“Please,” the Halfling begged Faramir who stroked the dark head.
“Let me take him.”
“Can I help?” Faramir could not bear to pull out of the frantic grip.
A pause, then Aragorn nodded, sliding his hand over the Halfling’s, pulling him away from Faramir. “Perhaps. But not tonight. Tomorrow, break your fast with me at the second bell.”
“Yes, my lord.” Faramir turned away. Hearing the soft weeping behind him, he knew he would not sleep again.
The sun rose in a cloudless sky, painting mountain peaks a thousand hues of gold and rose. Standing on his balcony, cold in the morning air, Faramir saw it rise unchallenged. No more fumes would rise from Orodruin, no more smokes and ash.
Faramir turned to go inside to wash and dress. He was tired, tired of grief. A time of renewal would come. The White Tree would bloom again.
As the second bell rang, Faramir heard a knock. He opened it, smiling at the golden-haired Halfling who stood outside. “Lord Aragorn sent me,” the small one said, his accent strange.
“I will follow, Master Halfling,” Faramir said. “May I know your name?”
“Pippin, my lord!” The Halfing smiled, turned and led Faramir to a small room, facing east, warm with sunlight and the smells of food.
Boromir sat at the table with Aragorn, both wearing robes, rich velvet trimmed with fur, over thin white nightrobes. Faramir sat between them, telling himself that they had worked late, had simply taken the chance to talk before dressing. He ate without tasting the food until Aragorn laid a hand, warm and strong, over his arm.
“Boromir has told me you dreamed of Imladris, the prophecy, first,” Aragorn said.
“Several times, yes.”
“Has any other dream come to you more than once?”
Faramir saw the black wave rising, towering over him, but said nothing of such an ill-omened dream. But there was another one, one he remembered telling his mother about, but no one else.
“One, my lord.”
“Tell me.” The hand tightened around Faramir’s wrist.
Faramir closed his eyes, remembering, smiling. “I dreamed as a child, three times before our mother died, of secretly climbing Mount Mindolluin, to find a sapling of Nimloth’s line.” Hearing his own words, Faramir flushed, opened his eyes. “I was young, my lord, and I mourned the dead Tree.”
Faramir stood beside Aragorn at full light, at the southern foot of Mount Mindolluin, where a path made in ages past began. Few dared to tread here for it led to a high hallow where only the kings had gone.
“Come with me,” Aragorn said, setting his foot on the path.
Faramir followed his king up steep ways until they came to a high field. Snow covered the grey peaks above them, and, turning, Faramir could see they stood high on the precipice behind the City. Lifting his eyes, Faramir looked over the Vale of Anduin, green as a garden, and saw the Mountains of Shadow clad in a golden mist. Rauros shone like a star against the grey Emyn Muil, and on the other side, the River rolled down to Pelargir where a light shone on the horizon. He was seeing the reflection of the Sea.
Aragorn’s hand settled on his shoulder, and Faramir blinked, dizzy, turning away from the height to face the man beside him.
“Is this the place of which you dreamed?” Aragorn asked, breath warm against Faramir’s face.
Turning, Faramir nodded. “I think so.” He closed his eyes, seeking for the memory of a dream lost in time.
Green grass, white snow. And lost in the stony waste, the wilderness between grass and snow, a sapling tree, leaves long and shapely, dark above and silver beneath.
Opening his eyes, turning, Faramir laughed with joy. For a stony slope ran from the green grass under his feet up the mountain. “Look, my lord!”
Aragorn turned with him, raised his eyes, and tugged Faramir forward, eager, feet scrabbling on the sliding and rocky ground, climbing, Aragorn’s hand wrapped around Faramir’s arm, until they stood at the very edge of the snow.
And Aragorn cried, “I have found it!”
One small cluster of white petals shone like the sunlit snow. Faramir dropped to his knees, and watched as Aragorn laid a strong hand gently on the sapling which seemed to hold only lightly to the earth. The silver ring he wore shone in the sunlight.
Faramir felt blood drain from his face, felt the ground tilt like a wave under him, as the sapling left the earth then in a breath withered and died in Aragorn’s hand.
Shrugging, Aragorn opened his hand, let the withered stick fall, and turned to Faramir, wrapping one hand around his arm, pulling him effortlessly to his feet.
“Perhaps I should have had you pluck it from the ground, young lordling,” he said, voice purring and deep, as his other hand settled around Faramir’s throat. “I thought it worth a try since you wished to help. But I doubt any will challenge my rule, with or without a tree too weak to live in the new age.”
Blood pounded in Faramir’s ears, and he opened his mouth to cry, to breathe, as Aragorn’s hand tightened around his throat. Despairing, Faramir fell into darkness, choking.
Pain ripped Farmir from darkness. He struggled to wake, to leave the dream, but the more he struggled, the greater the pain. Forcing his eyes open, blinking, he saw a dead stick lying close to him and wondered why it made him weep.
He tried to rise, felt hands grip his arms, bruising, felt the weight on his legs. Cried out as hardness breached him, white agony tearing through his body, slowly pushing in.
The deep voice mocked him. “You are mine, Son of Gondor, as is your brother.”
Faramir screamed again, tasting blood and fire, as Aragorn pulled out, then thrust in, harder and faster, over and over.
Hours later, aching in body and spirit, Faramir followed Aragorn down the mountain, back to the Citadel. Aragorn smiled at the guards who smiled back, and walked Faramir through the cool stone halls, their footfalls echoing.
“Go and bathe,” Aragorn said, placing his hand against Faramir’s face. “Rest. I will send you robes. Come to my rooms for daymeal. Say nothing of what happened.”
Faramir closed his eyes, struggling to speak, to move. If he could draw his knife, he could strike the evil standing before him. His hand would not move, and he could not even turn his face away.
He learned again that he could do nothing, as he had first discovered on the mountain, when Aragorn had knelt over him, using Faramir’s body.
Understanding had blazed through Faramir when Aragorn had turned him on his back and straddled his chest. Before Aragorn had thrust into his mouth, Faramir had seen the shining gold Ring, strung on a fine chain, blazing against the fair skin. Isildur’s Bane
“You please me, little one. Tonight will be even better.”
Slowly, leisurely, white teeth glinting against his short beard, Aragorn pushed Faramir back against the black column and leaned forward to kiss him, slow and warm.
Faramir discovered that he could still weep.
Aragorn’s room was richly appointed. The food was superb, but all save the wine tasted like blood or ashes in Faramir’s mouth. He drank thirstily, greedily, hoping to escape into a drunken stupor. The robes he wore were soft, clung to his body, layers of dark and light blues.
The dark-haired hobbit had brought the robes to Faramir’s room after the bell for daymeal had sounded. He’d been able to tell Faramir his name, Frodo, but seemed too afraid to say aught else. Pippin had been in Aragorn’s room, as had Boromir, and the two Halflings had waited on the men during the meal.
Which was now over. Frodo brought Faramir a plate of sweet cakes, and he shuddered, pushing them away.
Aragorn smiled at him, rose from the table, and led Pippin over to the large bed.
Free of the blue gaze, Faramir rose, stumbling, and moved numbly across the room, out the open doors to the balcony. He gripped the stone railing, yearning to fall. His body would not move. He remembered Frodo in the dark begging to be killed.
“He took you on the mountain this morning, didn’t he.”
Boromir stood beside him, red and gold robes moving on the breeze that rose from the River and blew the green scent of growing fields into the City.
Faramir turned, winced as Boromir reached out and touched him. “I recognize this.”
Raising his head, Faramir looked at the bruises, old and new, which marred Boromir’s throat, and nodded. Relief that he was able to do as much filled him. He had tried but failed to speak of what had happened to him, even tried to write, and had failed.
“He took me at Parth Galen.” Boromir pulled his robes aside, baring chest and belly, and Farmir bit his own lip hard enough to draw blood at the sight of the scars. Dark red, ridged and triangular, they spoke of violent attack and death. He counted five. No man could have survived so many wounds. That his brother stood before him, breathing, could hardly be believed. Nor could Faramir’s wish that they both die.
“I was dying. He healed me, then took me. I don’t know when he took Frodo, he’s never said. Nor has Frodo. Did you find the Tree for him?” Boromir’s voice was soft but edged with hate.
“Yes,” Faramir breathed, words bitter in his mouth. “It died when he touched it.”
“Isildur fell into darkness. What could we expect from Isildur’s heir? No Orc arrow came from the dark to save Gondor this time. At Parth Galen, their arrows hit me, killed friends who are probably better off than we. Aragorn has overthrown Sauron, the elves are leaving. It is the age of men. He is our King.”
“He is no King,” Faramir challenged Boromir.
“He defeated Sauron, healed the wounded, and was made King by the will and voice
of our people.”
“And will keep his well-loved Steward by his side as long as he rules.”
Faramir turned to see Aragorn, naked save for the Ring, smiling at them. He lounged against the doorframe, at his ease, Frodo silent beside him. The Halfling wore only a thin shirt which did not hide the bruises and welts.
Boromir turned, smiling or snarling, Faramir could not tell, and moved forward, his hand rising. Aragorn grasped the hand, pulling Boromir forward. With a stifled cry, Boromir fell to his knees, his hand twisting against Aragorn’s grip, head bowed. His other hand tangled in Boromir’s hair, Aragorn looked at Faramir and smiled.
“It was for love of your brother that I took the Ring,” he said softly. “He was dying, body ripped and torn, drowning in his own blood. I could not heal him, not without the Ring.” He pulled Boromir’s head forward. “But he was not grateful. He tried to kill me.”
Gripping the stone rail behind him, Faramir shook, from fear or rage or both.
Stroking Boromir’s head, Aragorn smiled down at him. “But he’s learned his lesson, haven’t you, my love? Open your mouth.”
Faramir closed his eyes, refusing to watch, but could not block his ears, could not refuse to hear the soft wet sounds, the murmurs and endearments, the strangled cries. Faramir tried to force himself to fall. And failed, again.
A warm hand touched his face, calloused fingers trailing along his neck, pausing to press down, sounding pain from bruises, sliding through slits in the soft robes. Light touches trailed down his chest and belly. Faramir willed himself to not respond, to give nothing.
“You, Ranger, have only begun your lessoning. Open your eyes.”
Hating, Faramir opened his eyes. Aragorn slid closer, sliding an arm around his back, wrapping his hand around Faramir’s member, tracing circles on sensitive skin. Clear in Faramir’s memory was the image of the tree withering in that same hand. He exulted to see Aragorn’s frown, to feel the increasing pressure that failed to win what he sought. Beyond Aragorn, sitting with his head bowed, was Boromir.
Releasing Faramir, Aragorn pulled away, slid a hand under his chin, holding tight enough to bruise again. “A novel way of resisting,” Aragorn said, slowly. “I could burn out all your will, leave your lovely body mindless, pliant, could set any desire within that I wished.”
Faramir bit his tongue, horrified to find himself willing to beg for such a fate. He would not speak.
“But that would be too easy. You seem as strong as your brother. I wonder, do you share his weakness?”
Releasing Faramir, Aragorn stepped back, turning, graceful, to where Frodo stood by Boromir. Stripping the shirt off the slim body, Aragorn set his hands on Frodo’s shoulders, pushing him forward to stand in front of Faramir.
“Look, Captain of Ithilien.”
Aragorn’s voice lashed through Faramir. He could not disobey. The golden light of the westering Sun shone full on the trembling Halfling. The skin on his face and arms was unmarked, but the signs of punishment by hand and whip were clear on his chest and thighs. Aragorn turned Frodo so Faramir could see his back as well, then turned him again to face Faramir.
“Will you see him suffer for your refusal to give me what I seek?”
“No,” Faramir said.
“On your knees.”
Moving stiffly, Faramir released the railing and dropped to his knees which brought him eye to eye with Frodo. Caught again by his beauty, seeing the pain in the large blue eyes, Faramir reached out, helpless. “Please,” he whispered.
Aragorn laughed, patted Frodo’s head before pushing him closer to Faramir. “I warn you, my Captain, he’ll be punished if he cannot arouse you. And punished if you finish before I allow. I will school you to bow to me.”
Faramir bowed his head, not sure what his face showed, focusing instead on Frodo who knelt before him. Aragorn stepped back, reaching down to pull Boromir to his feet.
When Frodo reached to part Faramir’s robes, he grasped the small hands, holding them gently, unsure of how much freedom he had, needing to test the bounds. Startled, Frodo tried to pull away, but when no response came from Aragorn, the tight hands relaxed in Faramir’s. He turned them palm up, kissed each hand, and whispered, “I am sorry.”
A smile trembled on the small mouth, then Frodo ducked his head, pulling his hands back, moved closer to Faramir. He closed his eyes, let Frodo part his robes. The small hands moving over his body were cold, but the shock of the warm mouth closing on his member almost made Faramir cry out. He clenched his hands, willed memory and fear away, tried to focus solely on sensation.
“Very good, little one. Boromir, bring him to me.”
Faramir did not move as Frodo released him, opened his eyes only when Boromir pulled him to his feet. Inside the room, Aragorn reclined on the bed, body limmed in light, shining against the rich crimson of hangings and bedding. Pippin was curled up at the foot of the bed.
Boromir’s hands urged Faramir forward until they stood, side by side, at the bed.
“Strip him. Pippin, you help.”
Pippin rose slowly, came to stand in front of Faramir, on the bed. His skin was unmarked, he smiled again at Faramir, as he had the first night, but something in the smile, in the way he ducked his head as he fumbled at the ties of the robe Faramir wore broke his heart.
The soft robes slid easily off, and Aragorn waved Pippin away, eyes intent on Faramir.
The Halfling slid off the bed, crept away, joining Frodo in a corner of the room. Faramir watched how the two held each other, curled together, weeping.
“Do you love your brother, Boromir?”
The question jolted through Faramir, and he felt Boromir’s hands tense around his arms.
Silence. Aragorn smiled, smoothed his hand along the bedding. “Put him here, beside me.”
When Boromir made no move, the blue eyes narrowed. “Do you defy me?” Aragorn sat.
“It seems I have come in good time, my love.”
The rich voice seemed to float in the silence of the room, breaking through the moment in which Faramir had hoped to die.
Smiling, Aragorn rose and turned to welcome the tall woman, clad in silver-trimmed black velvet, golden hair crowned with jewels of flame and night.
“My Queen.” He crossed to her, raising her hands to his lips, kissing them. “You have indeed. Our Steward dares question my will.”
Éowyn pulled Aragorn close, wrapping her arms around his waist, kissing him, her mouth avid against his. His hands tangled in her hair, pulling her head back.
Faramir blinked, the beauty of the two striking deep in blood and bone. How could evil be so fair?
Aragorn’s mouth slid down the white throat, and Éowyn thrust against him, laughing. The dark note woven among the gold chilled Faramir.
“Let me punish him, then, my love. You denied me before. Look how he repays you.”
“What would you do, Lady?”
“Whip him.” Éowyn freed herself from Aragorn’s arms and came forward, robes whispering over the floor. Her eyes shone like lapis, and she laid her hand on Faramir’s chest. “Or this one. Who is he? I saw him last night in the Hall but knew him not.”
“He is Faramir. Captain of Ithilien, brother to Boromir, son of Denethor.” Aragorn came to her side, placed his hand over hers.
“Ah.” She smiled. “I see. And Boromir defies you?” She shook her head, as if in sorrow, pink lips seeming to taste the words, tongue teasing the corner of her mouth. “Alas, how Gondor’s sons have fallen in love and duty.”
Aragorn pressed a kiss to that smiling mouth. “But with such a Lady to lead them, Gondor will learn. Boromir, would you rather swyve your brother or watch him whipped, lessoned by my Lady, who has broken many a stallion?”
Wincing, Faramir felt sharp nails pierce his skin as her hand contracted, her smile eager, until Boromir pulled him away, pushed him down on the bed.
“Patience, my love. The night is long, and you will not be disappointed.”
Shrugging out of the robes he wore, Boromir bent over Faramir, green eyes intent. He felt hard hands move on his body, hands which he would have recognized in dark or light, in life or death, hands which had held him as he took his first steps, hands which had pulled him back from high walls, hands which had shown him how to hold his first sword, hands which had held his head when he vomited on his first battlefield, hands which now slid around his throat.
The warm body slid closer to his, the grip tightening, those strong hands which had for so long sought only freedom tightening. Faramir closed his eyes and, loving his brother, slid into darkness.
Fire and ice. Blood and earth. Pain and pleasure.
Convulsing, Faramir coughed, breath tearing his lungs. The dark wave rose, crashing over stones and flesh. He would die in his dream.
Warm hands grasped his, pulled him free of black water stinking of death.
“Walk no more in the shadows, my Captain. Awake!”
The pressure around his throat eased. He could breathe freely. He felt wetness on his face and opened his eyes.
Aragorn leaned over him, hand stroking gently.
Faramir frowned, tried to swallow against the dryness, and Aragorn smiled, slid a hand under his head, and leaned over him to reach for a goblet. “Drink this.”
The cool rim pressed against Faramir’s lips and he opened his mouth. Cool liquid soothed his sore throat, washed away the burning in his mouth. Aragorn set the empty goblet down, settled beside Faramir, who felt smooth skin against his, remembered, and tried to twist away.
Heavy hands held him. The King leaned over him, darkness in eyes and voice, and spoke.
“I will not let you die, little one, not while you still please me. There is no escape that way. The hands of the King are the hands of a Healer. I brought your brother back from death, remember, for I loved him. But by his actions he has now earned his own punishment.”
Aragorn sat, pulling Faramir off the bed, turning him to see where Boromir stood, tied, between the two bed posts, heavy ropes taut from his arms to the massive posts. The ugly scars flamed against the fair skin overshadowing pale lines of earlier scars, all taken in Gondor’s defense, all on the front of his body. Faramir knew from sharing tent and bathing rooms that his brother’s back was fair, unmarked.
“My lady, you may begin.”
Aragorn pulled Faramir across the room, sat, pushing Faramir down between Aragorn’s legs. His hands tangled in Faramir’s hair, legs gripping his body, Aragorn said, “Watch and learn, little captain.”
White skin and golden hair shining against blackness, Éowyn leaned against Boromir, caressed his face.
He stared ahead.
She slid closer, hand on his belly, licked, then sucked, his neck.
His eyes closed, he swallowed, hands clenching around the silver ropes which bound him.
“My thanks for this rich gift,” she said. Her hand slid down his body, wrapping around his member, twisting, until he tried to pull away. She laughed. “I will take him, after.”
She picked up the braided leather whip which had lain unseen on the bed. Faramir winced, recognizing it as one he had forbidden the horsemasters to use on his animals. The whip cut through the air as she tested it.
She moved behind Boromir, graceful as a dancer, skirts flowing around long legs, raised the whip and swung. The crack of leather against skin sounded loud in the silent room.
She paused, smiling, and leaned forward, to run her fingers lightly over the red welt. She sighed, moved back, and raised the whip again.
After the whipping, Éowyn untied Boromir and guided him, stumbling, around to lie on the bed. He moaned as she pushed him down onto his back, and she knelt beside him, sucking him hard, then rose to straddle him, riding him, her black skirts flowing around her like a pool of black water on a starless night.
“Do not move, little captain. Watch and learn,” Aragorn said. He rose to join his lady on the bed, sliding behind her, lifting her skirts.
Through the open doors, Faramir saw the shadows sliding over the city. The coming night would be long
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