This story is rated «NC-17», and carries the warnings «Incest (obviously), non-consensual sex, some violence, major angst, canonical character deaths.».
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01 December 2008 | 3122 words | Work in Progress
TITLE: Stars All Seem To Weep
AUTHOR: Sarah Elizabeth
PAIRINGS: Faramir/Boromir, Faramir/Denethor, Faramir/Aragorn, Boromir/Aragorn, attempted Denethor/Aragorn (Thorongil)
RATING: NC-17 overall
SUMMARY: Boromir and Faramir will do anything to protect each other.
WARNINGS: Incest (obviously), non-consensual sex, some violence, major angst, canonical character deaths.
FEEDBACK: It means a lot to me. No flames please! Email
DISCLAIMERS: These characters are NOT mine, and I’m not making a single cent off this or any other story.
AUTHOR’S NOTES: My first time writing Boromir/Faramir or any FPS to begin with! This is somewhat more movie-verse than book-verse, particularly in the characterizations of Denethor and Faramir, and the physical descriptions of Faramir/Boromir are more based on David Wenham/Sean Bean than Tolkien’s descriptions. It’s somewhat hard for me to get out of that mindset, as I saw the films before reading the book. The title of this story is shared with that of a breathtaking song by Beth Orton.
Thorongil drained the last of the ale from his mug and bade the hall of courtiers goodnight. He would have to get up early to leave the city unnoticed and return to Lórien. His work here was done for the time being, and he thought that Gandalf and Elrond would be pleased with his accomplishments. Not only had he helped to rout the Corsairs of Umbar, but the tricky politics of Gondor, and of the world of men at large, were at last beginning to make sense.
He had to admit that he would miss Minas Tirith, although part of him always felt cooped up in the walled city. He would particularly miss Ecthelion, who had become a true friend to him over the years. And was fond of the Steward’s daughter-in-law, Finduilas, who was as lovely and kind-hearted a woman as he had ever met. Her husband Denethor, however, was not someone whom Thorongil would miss.
Thorongil had always shown Denethor the utmost deference, aware that the man would become Steward when Ecthelion passed on. Yet Denethor was openly hostile to him, clearly viewing him as a rival for his father’s respect and affection – and perhaps someone who would seek to usurp his future power. He had even accused Thorongil of looking at Finduilas with lust, something that Thorongil would have found amusing in its inaccuracy had he not been so unnerved by the coldness in Denethor’s eyes when he leveled the charge.
Deep in thought as he retreated to his chambers, he did not take much notice of the fact that a lamp had already been lit in his room. He sat down to take off his boots when he heard a noise behind him and spun around to find Denethor sitting on a long couch, his eyes darkened to an obsidian hue.
“I did not see you at the dinner,” Thorongil ventured. “Were you ill?”
“No. I merely did not want to go to yet another banquet that sang the praises of the great Thorongil.”
“It was a farewell dinner, my lord. I asked your father not to hold one, but he insisted.”
“My father…” Denethor shook his head. “He probably did not even notice my absence.”
Thorongil kept silent, feeling that whatever he said would further provoke Denethor.
“Are you going to ask why I have come to your chambers, my lord?” Denethor sneered, standing up and walking over to the other man.
“I expected you would tell me,” Thorongil said, keeping his voice neutral. He could now smell ale on Denethor’s breath.
Denethor did not give a reason; at least, not with words. He grabbed Thorongil’s head and kissed his lips violently. This was the last thing Thorongil had expected to happen, and he did not know how to react. He had lain with men over the years but only with those he cared for. And he knew that Denethor’s actions were not driven by love, or perhaps even by lust, but by the desire to dominate.
Thorongil pulled away at last, only to find Denethor’s strong hands pulling him back into an embrace. “You will submit,” he hissed.
“I served your father, not you,” Thorongil shot back.
Denethor’s hands groped at Thorongil’s breeches, trying to unlace them. Thorongil pushed him away, causing Denethor to fall onto the floor. “I have heard the rumors,” Denethor spat. “You lie with men when it suits you.”
“And you have a wife and child. You owe them your loyalty.”
“Do not presume to tell me what I owe to anyone,” he said bitterly.
In that moment, Thorongil felt pity for the son of Ecthelion. He did not doubt that Denethor loved Finduilas, but he now realized that the man had desires that went beyond what a woman could give to him. He suddenly wondered if Denethor’s contempt of him had less to do with competing for the attention of Ecthelion and instead was centered on urges that Denethor did not know how to handle.
“I am sorry to have offended you,” Thorongil said diplomatically. “I cannot do what you ask of me, but I swear not to tell another of what has happened tonight.”
“Nobody would believe you even if you did.” Denethor’s face became an unreadable mask. “I take my leave. I trust you will not return to this city when I am charged to be Steward. You would not be welcome.” He stood and walked out, his head held high with wounded pride. Thorongil watched him retreat, knowing that he still needed to be cautious.
If he ever returned to Minas Tirith, it would be to reveal himself as Aragorn, son of Arathorn and heir to the throne of Gondor, and Denethor’s fury at this deception would be a force to be reckoned with. He could see that underneath Denethor’s calm, noble bearing lay a current of rage that burned bright in his veins, waiting for an excuse to rush to the surface.
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The following people read the story, enjoyed it, and would like to thank the author: Drenagon , Faye