This story is rated «NC-17», and carries the warnings «Inner demons, adult slash scene, major angst.».
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19 December 2008 | 4013 words
Pairing: Faramir & Aragorn
Summary: When ridden by a dark terror, Faramir seeks the only thing that can lessen the pain.
A/N: I’ve been fighting this story for a while, but in the end, that is always futile. It doesn’t resemble what I’ve written before, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless.
Warnings: Inner demons, adult slash scene, major angst.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Those Who See and Burn
The darkness of late autumn evening swept over the muddy ground and without hesitancy encircled the nearby woods with their wanton veils, deepening the shadows further and laughing mockingly as they worked. Torch flames set their wild dances of light spinning higher and higher, and lower and lower as if they desired to awaken the very powers of this land. Powers that dwelled behind stones and beneath thorny bushes, powers that haunted those who could not close their minds to them.
Forth they crept, seeking out their path across the mud, wanting only to feel and finger… and maybe to taste and suck. While the rowdy songs and the harsh laughter ruled the camp, they took every chance offered unto them, and fiercely they bit.
What fuelled him still, Faramir knew not. He was only conscious of the never-ceasing pressure on his soul to burn away what would never vanish. There was nothing but searing pain and despite his will for it to end, he was also sure he would not live past its extinguishing.
No one cared that he left the fires, and so no one called out after him. He clumsily picked his way through the dirty groups of men, understanding not their jokes, nor the talk that was supposedly serious. They were beyond him, as he was separate from life. Their spiteful banter and constant shouting rushed to his head and crowded it further, only egging on the clamour that was already filling him.
Rain had drenched these parts of Gondor thoroughly and decay lay like a filthy blanket over the grounds. Fallen branches snaked out to trip him, but he managed to step aside when he spotted them as he knew their tricks by now. It was the eyes hiding in the undergrowth that he knew he must evade, for their ways changed. Whatever forms they belonged to, they were moody and capricious.
The King’s tent loomed before him, dark and ominous but it was also the only place where he would find any solace that night. Like every other night – if solace it could be called.
He was almost there when a small, slippery hand snuck out from underneath a dying, distorted shrub and caught hold of his breeches. A tiny, yet dangerously seductive voice jeered at him as the hand forcefully yanked at the fabric.
Pretty… pretty… Where are you going, are you?
Faramir kicked at the hand as the blood in his veins began to race.
Will you not come here? Pretty prince… come play with us…
Inquisitive fingers, lacking in any blood or bone that might mark them as human, touched his skin.
So warm! Yes, come with us, will you not?
Two pale eyes emerged from the shadows and Faramir aimed a shove in their direction. Fear blistered his skin and desperation set his lungs afire. The small hand gave another tug.
The eyes narrowed and gleamed suddenly yellow. Kicking desperately, Faramir thought he touched something and to his relief felt the possessive hand leave his clothing. He staggered backwards and nearly fell over, but managed to regain his footing in time. The eyes were on him still, but no unnatural limbs were seen in the shadows. A scornful laugh echoed among the bracket.
Next time pretty prince… next time you will play with us, you will…
Faramir breathed harshly as he stumbled the rest of the way to the tent. The yellow eyes bore into his back all the while, penetrated him and called to the other fear living inside of him. With fingers soiled from many days spent outdoors, he tore at the flap covering the entrance until it yielded and let him through. He burst inside, into the darkness and for a moment he stood absolutely still, revelling in the sensation of being safe.
A hiss, and then a lamp burst into life, casting its dim light about the tent. Straightening and surveying him with a grim look, the newly crowned King of Gondor sighed.
He had no time to waste on analysing the tone of voice or the hint of sadness visible beneath the older man’s frown. All Faramir needed was for this man to take away some of the excruciating pain that twisted the insides of his body without compassion.
The Kings attire was informal and consisted only of a pair of breeches and a thick tunic, complemented by a muddy boots and a cloak of a dark colour not discernable. He was unkempt and had not shaved for days, his dark hair falling around his face in what looked like an ignored mess. He would wear a leather belt beneath the tunic, but Andúril would not be fastened to it, not right now.
Already Faramir pleaded. He could hear it in his voice and he could sense it in his own posture as he leaned towards his King. There was no other way in which to do this though.
Aragorn walked up to him slowly with his broad shoulders building a shadow on the ground before him. His jaw was set but his gaze searched in vain for something that would maybe make this time different. Faramir killed that hope for him.
He robbed Aragorn of any chance to speak as he grabbed hold of him and forcefully pressed his lips against the King’s, minding not that teeth scraped against his own flesh. At this contact a war broke out inside his body and all kinds of commands and orders exploded within his mind. He pursued the kiss, letting the fear know what it had to conquer.
Aragorn was tugging at his shirt in a way which made it impossible to tell if he wanted to break free or if he wanted more. Faramir gave him more. He thrust his tongue in between Aragorn’s lips which instantly parted and let him inside the hot cavern of his mouth. As soon as Faramir tasted bread and pipe-weed, he knew he had given in to some weakness. He was not allowed to taste such things – those were not for him. To him was only given the possibility of fighting the darkness within by feeling.
He withdrew his tongue and caught hold of Aragorn’s lower lip instead, tugging at it with his teeth and sucking at it with his lips. The older man’s tongue thrashed his own mouth after that, sending Faramir a blissful dose of respite from what plagued him.
Then, brutally, Aragorn backed off and with a heaving chest held him away from him. His eyes were ridden by lust but they were still guarded, and that scared Faramir.
“Wait,” the King said hoarsely. “Faramir…”
No, he could not wait. He tried to seize those swollen lips again, but Aragorn was firm.
“Please, Faramir,” he urged and his face regained the hint of sadness the younger man had perceived before.
“No!” Faramir shook his head violently and tried to free himself from Aragorn’s grip. “I need this…” The first tingles of twisted joy ran through him as the darkness tasted its first sip of victory. “Please, Aragorn, do not deny me this!”
“I am not denying you,” said Aragorn, emphasising every syllable. “But I wish you would see that this does not help you. Can we not–”
“But it does help me!” Faramir lunged himself at Aragorn again and this time he conquered the arms that withheld the embrace. Pressing his body full against the strong frame of the King, he felt the stirrings of arousal in his nether regions, inevitable at this point as it was his mind’s command. “It does help me,” he repeated in a calmer voice now that he was closer to Aragorn.
His mouth sought out its partner and he kissed ferociously, happy at last when Aragorn kissed back. Yet, the older man was hard to convince this accursed night.
“It helps you but momentarily,” he argued as soon as the kiss was ended. “It gives you no peace during the day, nor during the rest of the night when you have left here as soon as you came.”
“It gives me peace as it happens.”
Aragorn shook his head. “No, not even then.”
A sharp sting in his stomach made Faramir draw a sharp breath and the sight of the eyes outside flashed before him. “Yes, it does,” he partially lied. He knew not himself any longer.
Placing his hands on Aragorn’s hips, he brought their groins together and was pleased to notice the hardness that met him. “Aragorn,” he begged, “please take me.”
He gave a small forward thrust and elicited a growl from the King.
“On the bed,” Aragorn directed.
“I do not need the bed,” insisted Faramir, grinding their growing erections together through the cloth.
“On the bed. Faramir, I will not take you on the ground.”
It was not so large a matter that the darkness would care. Faramir let himself be led to the low bed set up for the King instead of merely a bedroll and he immediately began untying the lacings of his breeches. Aragorn left him and walked over to a stand upon which stood a pitcher and a bowl. At the sound of water filing the basin, Faramir looked up.
“You need not wash your hands, Aragorn.”
The King gave an exasperated snarl. “If I am going to touch you I am not doing it with dirty fingers.”
He dried his hands on a piece of cloth and picked up something too small for Faramir to see what it was. Suspiciously, the younger man eyed him as he walked over to the bed, but Aragorn would not reveal what he was holding.
“Take them off.”
Faramir did as he was told, at last able to be grateful that Aragorn had not refused him this. He pushed down his breeches and let them fall to the floor of soil beside the bed.
“Lay down for me.”
Ignoring his discarded piece of clothing, Faramir stretched out on his stomach upon the bed. He gave a small hiss as his half risen length slid along the blankets and the friction sent a wave of heat washing over him. He felt the simple mattress dip as Aragorn settled behind him and he spread his legs as much as possible in the limited space.
A calloused hand swept over the bare skin and caused it to prickle. The tumult within Faramir’s mind froze for an instant and there was suddenly a new feeling hovering at the edges of his consciousness, but he quickly chased it away.
“Wait not, Aragorn.”
The hand stopped its caresses and disappeared. When it returned again, it was with greater speed and stronger force. It stroked his rounded cheeks and delved between them, seeking out the sacks that hid close to Faramir’s sex. They were cupped from behind and stroked a couple of times before the hand travelled back up and ran a sole finger along his spine, pushing away his tunic as it went.
Aragorn would not undress, he would only open up his breeches enough to free his cock. This haste was important. Faramir raised himself up a little, making it easier for Aragorn to claim him. The more time spent arousing him, the more time was given to the whispering voices outside and the clawing anguish within.
He hoped Aragorn would take him now, when he so purposefully positioned himself, but he was wrong. Only one slick finger brushed against his entrance and he groaned aloud.
“No preparation, please… Aragorn ‘tis alright.”
Aragorn’s voice was rough. “I will not hurt you.”
Faramir pushed against him blindly, tears of frustration stinging his eyes. “You never hurt me. Just go on!”
And Faramir must relent for he simply had no choice. Desperately he pushed back as soon as the first finger impaled him, knowing that it was far – far – from enough. He felt a second finger enter, and even if it was the tiniest of changes, at least it was more.
Laughter rang in his ears, and there were blurred images of ghosts from the past stepping forward. Someone pointed at him and smiled wickedly, making the others scream in shrill tones.
Three fingers stretched him as a pain that had nothing to do with Aragorn’s movements cut through him. He choked on his breath and the preparations stopped.
Aragorn’s voice was fraught with worry and Faramir cursed himself.
He breathed despite the burning in his lungs. “‘Tis fine… go on. ‘Twas not you.”
He felt the hesitancy in the actions when they were resumed and he was touched again. The phantoms drew back a little, but their piercing cries rippled through him cruelly. Blinking away the tears, Faramir silently begged for Aragorn to enter him properly instead so that he could be filled by something other than this constant shadow.
Then, finally, he felt the blunt head of Aragorn’s erection probing his opening and he nodded wildly, not trusting his voice. The King pushed inside in a long, slow motion, adding fuel to the fire that raged inside Faramir’s body. The younger man pushed back, met the thrusts from the very start and cared nothing for any additional pain that might cause him. He heard Aragorn’s breathing deepen and hands took a firm grip on his hips as a ruthless pace was set.
Faramir rejoiced as the blazing tongues of pleasure chased the darkness around. He saw the haunting images set on fire by the very thrusts that shook his body. All he knew in this moment was the blessed presence of something else inside of him, something that was not dark and threatening.
Aragorn was groaning loudly, leaning over him and grazing his teeth along his shoulder. When he bit into Faramir’s skin, it was as close to perfection the young man thought he might come. He could hold back sounds of his own no longer and heard the strangled moans escaping from his own dry lips.
The voices went silent and the eyes melted into the surrounding, normal, darkness of the night. Ghosts from neither past, nor future dared enter his mind now – not when Aragorn was filling him so utterly and completely. Not as Aragorn’s hand left his hip and took a hard hold on his throbbing cock and began pumping it mercilessly.
Faramir’s head swam as the fire ravaged his always lingering nightmares and the terror that kept his senses out of control. He knew he was nearing completion and he fought it with ever part of his remaining consciousness. He wanted no ending to this, as this was what brought him freedom.
Aragorn’s movements lost their rhythm and became more and more frantic, his voice gone hoarse from nearly screaming. Faramir felt the muscles in his own groin contract and with a boundless grief knew it was over. He felt the white hot stream of seed fill his channel and as Aragorn’s final drawn-out cry echoed around him, he came himself, violently coating the hand that still covered his shaft.
Loosing the power over his limbs, Faramir fell down upon the blankets with Aragorn following him. The King’s sweaty chest held him immobile as their ragged breaths left their lungs. It was a wish born out of extreme desperation, but Faramir gave thought to it anyway: that maybe, maybe – for once – he was allowed to remain in this state of nothingness for a little bit longer. He moved not a finger, praying fervently that Aragorn would stay atop him and so hinder him from leaving for the outside world where all the dangers dwelled.
He dared not breathe and he dared not smell the scent of sex that hung low in the air. He had done that once before and had later that night been assaulted by things he had no name for. Therefore, he shut down his senses and ignored their calling.
“Are you alright?”
The King was asking, and his hand was trailing down Faramir’s right arm.
His reply was throaty and accomplished nothing. Aragorn never repeated these acts twice a night.
“I should go.”
“You need not leave.”
Faramir felt again the sizzling burn of tears behind his eyelids and the sigh he had meant to give was broken in two by the sob that overcame it. With little effort he swallowed this pathetic display of emotions.
Aragorn must have thought he had a chance, for he continued.
“You forget I am a healer. Please Faramir, let me help you.
Squirming underneath the strong body, Faramir felt the first tendrils of the darkness that owned him begin to return. “I need not your help,” he whispered.
Aragorn snorted and then, in one fluid motion, slipped out of him and stood. “Just as you need not friends? As you need not to eat? This is folly!”
If he only knew how correct he was.
The King stalked away, leaving Faramir with an open void inside his body where before had been a presence. Sneaky fingers that were not there to stretch and pleasure toyed with the open space and slipped inside. Soon they would master the rest of him again and there was no way to stop them. When Aragorn returned he had replaced his cloak with a warm robe of a deep red shade. Faramir pulled himself upright and only welcomed the soreness as he tried to sit up. He reached out for his breeches but found that Aragorn had picked them up and placed them on the bed. Quickly he caught them and just as swiftly he was dressed.
He turned back to the bed for a last glance. It was here that he was capable of addressing his fears and living without them. Upon spinning around to face the rest of the tent, he found he stood face to face with Aragorn.
A sense of nervousness dashed through him. He wanted not to talk as the King sometimes seemed to wish. He had nothing to say – could explain nothing of his doom – and so it was best to leave as soon as possible. In the narrow space though, Aragorn made it impossible.
“I do not wish for you to leave. You are not well.”
“I am never well, Aragorn.” Faramir fidgeted with the sleeve of his shirt. “It makes no difference. I need not your help.”
He had to get out of here. Had to breathe some other type of air, no matter how cursed it might be. He tried a step forward but Aragorn stopped him.
“As you need not anything else? Security? A wife?”
Faramir reeled backwards instead, staring at the man before him.
“A wife?! Who in the world would I marry?”
“Éowyn would have given her heart to you.”
Aragorn’s voice was calm and steady, and his face stern but his gaze not without compassion. Shaking violently by now, Faramir was trapped between the bed and the King, seeing no way out. Demanding silhouettes rose in the corners, hinting at their intentions if he did not leave at once. Faramir changed his approach and came closer.
“I beg of you Aragorn, let me go?” He saw his own hand tremble as he lifted them and placed them against Aragorn’s chest. “I must get out of here.”
“To what? You have never let anyone help you!”
Aragorn’s unrelenting tone stirred a spark in Faramir, enthusiastically supported by the madness that drove him.
“And what about your own wife!? What about Arwen?! Does she know that you share your bed with an insane man?”
Aragorn’s expression did not change the slightest. “Arwen knows all of my doings.” Then his face softened and he wrapped his fingers around Faramir’s wrists. “If you will not accept my aid, let her help you. Arwen knows much about the healing of the spirit.”
Briefly, a vision of the gentle elven Queen drifted before his eyes. Arwen always seemed to see straight through him, even though he tried to shrink away and disappear in her company. Maybe she knew more than he feared. As apparently Aragorn had already told her of this inappropriate alliance. It was not for him to judge though.
“Aragorn, please, let me go.” His voice had lost all of its sudden anger. He felt solely the continuous beat of his fear-drenched heart and its urgent requests that he should throw himself into the arms of night instead.
The King sighed and stepped aside. Faramir dove forward, heading for the exit. But before he had made his way there, Aragorn grasped his arm.
“Have some water at least,” he said.
If this was what Aragorn would force him to do in order to allow him his escape, then he would succumb. He took the jug the older man held out for him and downed the icy cold drink in one move. He started for the way out as the calls within his mind grew bolder and ecstatic.
Come play with us… Now you come for us, pretty prince…
There were masses of eyes outside, floating just out of reach. He only needed to lift the flap of the tent and then they would surround him and pierce him with their pale glow.
He stumbled in the mud, just as he reached out for the fabric. His usually sharp knowledge of his inside world dimmed and the eyes grew hazy. Cursing, Faramir tried again but to his building anxiety saw his own arm failing and falling dully downwards again. Shadows harassed and mocked him as he could not even complete this small task. He attempted to speak, to beg Aragorn to help him, but the King stood motionless some feet away as if he had not heard Faramir slur at all.
The soil shifted beneath his feet and his legs grew heavy. Suddenly unable to support himself any longer, Faramir felt himself falling and was vaguely thankful that arms wrapped around him.
“You are not leaving tonight.” Aragorn’s voice was gentle as he drew Faramir closer. “I need you to rest.”
The darkness would never have this. Faramir screamed silently within. Did not Aragorn understand? This was not a safe haven for long – this too would be torture soon. He was going to be punished for this! They would never let Faramir live through this gently. No drug owned the power to chase away whatever possessed him. And even if it might do so fleetingly, there would always come a moment when Faramir was free from it and brought back to the dungeons of darkness.
He twisted in Aragorn’s grip but the drug was too strong. It overpowered him and sent him tumbling into a mist of numbness. He felt Aragorn laying him back on the bed and covering him up with a blanket. He fought this too, aware that the eyes did not like it when he was taken care of by another.
The King was speaking to him in hushed tones, mumbling words that drifted together and were meant to soothe. An obstinate part of Faramir’s mind that he normally was able to quench easily, seized its chance and listened intently. The younger man felt his body sink further into the mattress as a tiny area of his inner landscape was swathed in a calm, white mist. No eyes broke through.
Giving in this much meant that the rest of his mind and body followed. He felt a warm, large hand stroke his hair and Aragorn’s murmuring sifted through the mist.
“You will have no dreams.”
Then the mist claimed all of him.
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The following people read the story, enjoyed it, and would like to thank the author: ebbingnight