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15 May 2011 | 1429 words
Summary: What love is mine, is yours.
Pairing: Faramir & Aragorn
Rating: R, for safety
Disclaimer: All of Middle-earth and all its inhabitants belong to Mr Tolkien.
But, lo! from a peak on the mountain grand
That looks out over the smiling land
And over the mighty ocean,
The Eagle is spreading her splendid wings-
She rises, rises, and upward swings,
With a slow, majestic motion.
- excerpt from A Fable, by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
The Rising of the Sun
There are different types of knowledge.
The council members of Minas Tirith are all very wise. Indeed, they have been chosen for their extensive knowledge of a great many things. Some are skilled with a quill and ink, chosen for the way in which they wield words and bind them together in a flowing stream of beauty. Some are chosen for their knowledge of numbers and finances. Yet others are seasoned warriors who know the winds that will carry the arrow of a crossbow into an enemy’s heart.
There are amongst the council members those who so well know the lore of the lands that one is surprised to learn that they are not old souls of the lost ages. There are those who will, by word alone, persuade the greediest of traders to open their purse to the gold it holds. And make them smile while they do it. There are those who know of herbs and tinctures, who divide their time between the Houses of Healing and the council chamber. There are the scribes and the Master of the Hunt.
Because of this extraordinary fusion of knowledge the White City continues to gleam each morn in the first rays of the Sun, and stands tall still as the Moon circles its towers at night. From this wealth of wisdom that is its lifeblood, it draws strength, and there is no reason for why decision-making should be steeped in folly.
For this reason, it is with a mixture of incomprehension and fascination that Faramir son of Denethor listens to the Elders and speak with them in turn. For men so wise and sage, they are incredibly imperceptive. They know of the glittering formations of the stars, they know of bridles and taxes, they know the names of every Gondorian soldier (and that of his father) but they are blind to the goings-on in the royal council chamber.
More ale has been brought, and the cups refilled. This particular ale is of a gentle kind, more likely to quench your thirst than set your head a-spinning. Faramir brings his own cup to his lips and drinks gratefully for the day is warm and though the windows are open, the walls in here attract more city sounds than cool air.
He leans back in his chair, once more going over the map of the second city level. The parchment is old and the ink pale and shadowy, but the sewers and the gutters are all indicated and clearly visible. Absent-mindedly he flicks a lock of hair from his forehead, registering on some level that a thin layer of sweat coats his brow.
Beside him, the King of the Reunited Lands is decorating a similar map with markings, occasionally leaning forwards and picking up another parchment from the table. The mingled voices – discussions and debates – blend into a comfortable buzz which washes through Faramir in soft waves.
He shifts in his seat, stretching his legs out under the table. Summer arrived early this year and since it is not yet custom for any citizens to go about their daily business unclothed, tunics and shirts of the finest linen are now as highly priced as the Winged Crown itself.
The King gives a low hum but Faramir does not turn to him. Aragorn Elessar is deeply immersed in his task and it makes little sense to interrupt him. Indeed, Faramir has no wish to disturb the flow of sweet, calming moments that make up this hour, this day. He exhales slowly, thinking that he can almost see his own breath sweeping through the heat, sliding over the large scroll in his lap.
Faramir often wonders if he is wise, or if it even matters. Usually he comes to the conclusion that he has no desire to rise to the level of the other council members. Great wisdom, he has learnt, sometimes makes you blind to the more mundane matters and Faramir is not one to dismiss the importance of everyday life. As for desire itself, once it consumed him. Now it is coupled with great love.
“Lord Faramir,” Onëron’s voice cuts through the pleasant rumble of conversation, “will you want these?”
Faramir looks up at the old man with the meticulously trimmed, and perfectly white, beard. “Are those the plans for the reservoir? Good, I shall take a look.”
He, too, leans forwards, reaching out to accept the stack of parchments. He does not press against the edge of the table and yet in the corner of his eye he sees the King make the tiniest move. With the plans in his grasp, Faramir hastens to sit back again, this time turning to his lord by his side.
Aragorn’s grey eyes are soft in the sparkling sunlight that streams in through the row of windows. A small smile plays in the corner of his mouth but it will never form a smirk. Later, Faramir is sure, it will blossom. Sometimes teasing, never cruel, the King has replaced the Sun in the sky for Faramir.
Eyes are fastened upon letters and figures and symbols, mind and thought are bent on conquering stone and wood; matters of the heart and of the flesh do not concern these venerable gentlemen around the table. Though their knowledge make them invaluable, little do they know that their King’s hand rests on his Steward’s knee, hidden by layer upon layer of parchment.
There are times when Faramir must scream, when he is sure that the walls shake as he meets with ecstasy. There are times when his joining with the King is so glorious that he trembles and thrashes, that his body threatens to burst with his release. And then there are times when he comes so quietly and gently that all he knows is a sigh and a smile, and a blessed shiver.
Aragorn’s hand slides up and down his thigh at a slow pace – just as it has done for the past hour. A lazy desire simmers in Faramir’s blood. He parts his legs some more in invitation, content when Aragorn accepts. The laces of his leggings have already been dealt with. If Faramir were to lift aside the maps, he would see his own cock, pleasantly throbbing as it arches out from his body.
He wonders how many laws and treaties Aragorn has signed with Faramir’s seed dried on his hand.
Sometimes they kiss in public. More often, they kiss behind closed doors. But at a banquet only last week, Aragorn pulled Faramir into his lap and wrapped his arms around his waist. It was only afterwards that Faramir learned that the golden-haired Elf his King was speaking to while this happened was the legendary Glorfindel, one of Lord Elrond’s closest friends.
‘My beautiful lover,’ Aragorn had said after they had fallen into the royal bed that night. ‘Do you know that I love you?’
‘I do,’ Faramir had said, smiling up at him. ‘You are my heart.’
Aragorn was buried deep inside him by then and his thrusting was slow and gentle. He had smiled, too. ‘As you are mine.’
Now Faramir’s eyes threaten to drift shut. Aragorn’s hand cups his swollen flesh and squeezes experimentally. The lines and names on Faramir’s map blur before him as his King’s desire twines with his own.
The sunlight tangles in Aragorn’s dark tresses. Faramir lifts a hand and rakes his fingers through them, yearning for nightfall when the moonlight will cradle them both. And again for dawn when the first sun rays will find them – limbs, dreams and hopes entwined. Little does knowledge matter when he lies with Aragorn.
Nay, leave politics to the Elders, and if all that is left to Faramir is love, then let it be so. He makes no claim on wisdom.
Drenched in sunlight, quietly and gently he surrenders. With a sigh and a smile, and a blessed shiver.
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Thank the author
The following people read the story, enjoyed it, and would like to thank the author: Mira Took