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Worth the Price (NC-17) Print

Written by RubyElf

09 November 2011 | 2767 words

Title: Worth the Price
Author: RubyElf
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Faramir & Éomer, Boromir
Warnings: bondage, pain, angst

Eomer is the only one Faramir can trust when a price must be paid.

(Written for the 2011 Trick or Treat fic exchange at Sons of Gondor on LiveJournal)


Faramir stood at the window, looking out over the snow-dusted, empty plains of Rohan. Behind him, a fire blazed brightly in the broad hearth, sparking as Éomer tossed a few more logs into it. The blond-haired man stood and turned toward Faramir, but he seemed lost, his thoughts out wandering somewhere over the darkened land.

“Faramir,” he said quietly.

Faramir blinked and glanced over his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I’m a very poor guest.”

Éomer chuckled and shook his head. “You are wed to my sister. You are no longer a guest… you’re family. She did not wish to join you for this visit?”

Faramir shook his head. “She wanted to remain in Ithilien. Elboron is healthy and growing fast, but much too small to travel in such poor weather.”

“He would be nearly a year old now, yes?”

Faramir nodded. Éomer rose and approached Faramir, laying a hand on his shoulder and feeling the chill of the soaked, half-frozen cloth of the man’s cloak.

“And you, Faramir? What would make you travel in such poor weather?”

Faramir shrugged. Éomer took him by the shoulders and turned him gently away from the window and into the warm glow of the guest room that was always Faramir’s when he came to Edoras, with its broad bed draped in furs and an entire wall dominated by the vast hearth. The choice of this room for the visiting Steward was no accident; Éomer was one of the few people who knew that since the touch of the Black Breath, Faramir was never entirely warm. Éomer reached for the ties of Faramir’s wet cloak and let it fall to the floor before working steadily at the laces of the tunic beneath it.

“You’re soaked through to the skin.”

Faramir nodded absently, as if Éomer spoke of someone else. Éomer spread the unlaced tunic, feeling the chilled, bare skin beneath, and Faramir shivered and closed his eyes. His wet hair hung in dark curls over his pale forehead, and Éomer resisted the urge to brush them away.

“Tell me why you came here, alone and nearly frozen, Faramir. I know you didn’t come to talk of trade agreements or edicts.”

As he spoke, he quickly pulled his own shirt over his head, and Faramir’s eyes darkened as the firelight and shadow played over the King of Rohan’s broad shoulders and through the always-tangled golden mane.

“You’re right,” Faramir said quietly. “I came to talk about Boromir.”

Éomer frowned. “You came here through this snow, knowing the end of February brings the worst storms across… oh.”

Faramir nodded, his gray eyes darkened almost to black. “Yes.”

Éomer grasped the other man and pulled him tightly against him, kissing him fiercely. Faramir sank into the crushing embrace, eyes drifting closed. Éomer knew now why he had come, knew what he needed.

“You are nearly frozen,” Éomer murmured against his ear. “You should eat first, and rest, before we do this.”

“No. Please, Éomer. Now.”

Éomer raised his hands to tip Faramir’s head back, looking into the wide, distant eyes that seemed to be looking at something only he could see, the exhausted lines of his face, the grief still as raw now as it had been when he learned four years ago that he had lost his brother on this same dark day in February.

He steered Faramir to a chair by the fire and let him sit, only half-aware, as Éomer pulled off his wet boots and stripped him of his breeches before stepping back to study him in the firelight.

“You’re thin, Faramir. Doesn’t my sister feed you?”

“She tries. I have little appetite in winter. I’m too cold. It feels like the food freezes in my stomach.”

Éomer kneeled between Faramir’s knees and pressed a kiss to the pale chest, feeling hard lines of ribs beneath the skin. Faramir breathed in sharply and arched toward the touch, desperate in his need, and Éomer followed his lips with strong, calloused fingers, tracing the ribs, the white raised lines of scars, feeling Faramir’s cock surge to hardness where it was trapped between their bodies. Faramir’s breath was ragged, and when Éomer raised his eyes to the man’s face, his cheeks were streaked with tears.

“Faramir, please,” he murmured. “You don’t want this.”

“I need this, Éomer. You know that.”

“I wish you wouldn’t ask this of me,” he said, stroking Faramir’s lean thigh. “I don’t enjoy doing this to you.”

Faramir sat up and tangled his fingers in Éomer’s hair, looking down at him. “It will be worse for me if you won’t do it.”

“Faramir…” Éomer said, pressing his face to Faramir’s chest.

“Please, Éomer. You’re the only one I trust. I need this. If you won’t, I’ll have to…”

“Shh,” Éomer hissed sharply. “You will not do that. I’ll do this for you, my friend, but you must know there’s no pleasure for me in hurting you.”

Faramir closed his eyes and nodded. Éomer stood and offered Faramir his hands, pulling him to his feet. Faramir shook in his arms, a shivering that was only half from cold, and allowed Éomer to guide him to the back of the room and lay him down on the thick furs that draped the broad bed with its elaborately carved wooden headboard. Éomer stripped off the rest of his clothes and laid himself down next to Faramir, running slow fingers over the pale, trembling skin as Faramir lay staring emptily at the arched ceiling lost in the shadows of the firelight. Faramir did not respond to his touches, and Éomer sighed, knowing there would be no possibility of coaxing Faramir into a night of warmth and comfort, not tonight; that was not what had brought Faramir all these miles alone in the cold. He had come for something that of all people he trusted only Éomer to give him.

“Are you ready?” he asked, kissing the cool skin of Faramir’s throat.

A small nod was his only answer, and Éomer sat up and reached for a leather belt that lay on a clothes chest by the bed. Faramir’s chest rose sharply as Éomer pulled his hands above his head and wound the belt around his wrists.

“Yes?”

Faramir, eyes still closed, shifted slightly against the leather and nodded again. “Yes.”

“All right,” Éomer said, finding himself caught somewhere between arousal and horror at knowing what he was about to do. “Over, then.”

Faramir rolled slowly, his bound hands still above his head, and now Éomer took the belt and looped it over one of the knobs on the headboard, drawing Faramir’s arms tight and flexing the muscles of his shoulders. Stretched out like this, his back bared, exposed to Éomer the three deep scars permanently inked with black, running parallel to each other from beneath his shoulder blade to the middle of his back. The first was slightly crooked and not as even; Faramir had done that one himself. Éomer traced the tattoos with his fingers, remembering the sight of Faramir’s blood welling up under his knife, the way his breath came in ragged, desperate gasps as Éomer rubbed the blackened ash into the wounds.

“Faramir…” he said, his throat tightening. “I can’t…”

“Please.”

“What now, Faramir? How many do you need?”

“One for every year I live without him.”

“Faramir, you will be nothing but scars by the time you are an old man.”

A long moment of silence.

“I am nothing but scars now, Éomer. I need this.”

Éomer swallowed hard as he reached for his water flask and ran cool water over the naked skin to clean it. “Another line?”

Faramir nodded. “Thought we’d better do it early, before you’ve had too much ale to make a straight line.”

Éomer laughed unsteadily. “Faramir, I think you have too much faith in me as an artist.”

“I don’t care if it’s beautiful. I just want to know it’s there.”

Éomer rose and went to the fire, taking his knife from its place on the dresser and heating it to a red glow in the fire before carefully collecting a small bowl of charred and blackened ash. He watched Faramir, stretched out and breathing deeply, as he poured a bit of water into the ash and mixed it to a black paste, then tested the blade to make sure it had cooled somewhat. A hot blade would cauterize the wound as it cut, and Faramir would not be satisfied unless there was blood.

He climbed back onto the bed and sat on his knees at Faramir’s side. “Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

“This will hurt, Faramir.”

“Yes.”

He had done this twice before, but Éomer’s heart still lurched into his throat and he had to force his hand against its will to lower the knife blade to Faramir’s skin, below the other shoulder. The first cut was smooth and deep, and Faramir sobbed against the furs as blood welled up and began to slide in red beads down his side. Éomer cut until blood was pouring freely from the wound, pooling in the hollow of Faramir’s lower back and on the furs beneath him. Faramir had not moved, but only the thick furs muffled the cries that escaped him. Éomer quickly reached for his flask and generously poured water over the gash, diluting the blood as Faramir heaved and gasped, hands jerking involuntarily at his bonds. He took the bowl of black carbon paste and, steeling himself, scooped up a handful of it and rubbed it hard into the open wound.

Faramir cried out and for a moment his muscles went slack as the pain took him under, and Éomer hoped he would stay there, but he was back a moment later, breathing rough and desperate for air. Éomer worked until he was sure that the black paste had been rubbed deep into the wound before grabbing for the bottle of whiskey beside his bed and pouring it over Faramir’s back, washing away some of the blood and blackness, cleansing the gash. Faramir had no air left to cry out, but his chest heaved as the burn took what was left of his breath away, and then Éomer was beside him, his hands stroking his sweat-soaked hair, soothing him.

“It’s done, Faramir. Shh. It’s done.”

They lay for long minutes, Faramir still breathing in sobbing gasps, Éomer stroking his neck and shoulders until finally the other man’s taut muscles began to loosen under his fingers.

“Let me unbind your hands,” Éomer said.

Faramir shook his head. “Not yet. It’s not done yet.”

Éomer lowered his head and looked over Faramir’s lean frame, his back streaked with blood and sweat, his red-brown hair beginning to dry into soft curls in the warmth from the hearth. His mind recoiled from what Faramir wanted next, but his cock could not refuse to respond; the times he and Faramir had together were few and far between, and as King of Rohan he had few if any opportunities to seek out the company of any other man. Even if he had, none of them would have drawn him as irresistibly as Faramir. The wiry archer’s form, the untidy hair, the soft voice, the gentle and willing yielding in moments of passion, were seared into Éomer’s memory, and now even as his mind resisted, his body was demanding to press itself to that pale skin, to bury itself in that welcoming, enveloping body and hear Faramir’s voice crying out wordlessly beneath him. Tonight, though, was not for lovemaking. Tonight was for exorcism.

Éomer reached for the stand by his bed and groped in the drawer until he found a small vial of oil. Faramir was too far gone at this point to care whether Éomer hurt him or not, but Éomer had no intention of doing anything of the sort, not any more than he already had. He slicked his fingers with oil and slid his hand between Faramir’s thighs, feeling them part almost thoughtlessly to give Éomer’s seeking fingers better access. He worked gently as Faramir buried his face in the blood-stained furs, breathing hard and shuddering each time the other man’s fingers found that particular place. Éomer longed to speak to him, to reassure him with words of affection and comfort, but Faramir was beyond hearing him now. He was listening for another voice, one only he could hear, and Éomer’s words would only interrupt.

He laid his hands on the insides of Faramir’s thighs and spread them further, finding no resistance as he slid between them. His cock had none of the reservations that more sensible parts of him did, and he realized that it was pounding impatiently as he guided it, opened Faramir up and pushed inward, feeling every muscle in Faramir’s body tense, then surrender with a shuddering sigh as Éomer thrust harder and buried himself in the welcoming heat.

“Please,” Faramir whispered.

Éomer obeyed; he could do nothing else. He drew back and thrust again, feeling Faramir jerk against the leather belt around his wrists as he tried to rock back to meet him. He increased his pace and his force, gripping Faramir’s hips to steady him as he drove into him with growing force and need.

Faramir clutched at the leather, focusing his attention on the dual sensations of Éomer’s thrusts and the burning pain of the long gash down his back. The rest of the world receded till there was nothing but firelight and the pain of his wound, sharper now with the sweat between their bodies, the smell of his own blood and the strong hands gripping his shoulders.

“Faramir,” a familiar voice whispered, reverent.

Faramir could not find words to answer him, but none were needed. The hands on his shoulders were the calloused hands of a swordsman, the smell and feel of the man pressed against him as known to him as his own heartbeat. Faramir tried to speak, but the voice that was not Éomer’s silenced him gently.

“Hush, little brother. Our time is short.”

Faramir surrendered and kept his eyes tightly closed; Boromir’s familiar room in Minas Tirith was warm on this cold night, the sounds of their coupling muffled by the heavy, faded tapestries, the door locked against intrusion by the citadel guards who passed by in the halls outside. His brother smelled of leather and sweat and the dust of the training grounds, and his voice was rough from a day of shouting orders as he groaned against Faramir’s neck.

“A year is a long time to wait for you,” Boromir murmured. “I knew you’d come, though.”

“Always,” Faramir whispered, as Boromir slid his hands under Faramir’s shoulders and gripped tightly as he drove into him harder, rocking Faramir’s leaner body beneath him.

“You pay in blood and scars for these moments with me?” his brother asked, breathless as his release drew nearer.

“A small… price…” Faramir almost sobbed, and then he had no voice left as Boromir thrust again and cried out, gripping him as if to never let go, and Faramir gave in to the climax he had tried to hold back, to make this time last as long as it could, but it was never long enough.

“I have no other love but you,” Boromir said, his voice fading, and Faramir collapsed back against the bed, the exhaustion and the pain and the bleeding finally combining to pull him down into a spiraling blackness that echoed with his brother’s voice and touch.

Éomer drew back from Faramir, still breathing hard as he ran his hands over the other man’s back to feel his ribs rise and fall beneath the long muscles, his hands leaving prints in sweat and blood. He reached up to release Faramir’s hands, wincing at the deep burns the leather had cut into his wrists as he twisted against it. He found a cloth and carefully cleaned him until the pale skin was white again but for the new scar, angry red and black, then drew the bloody furs from beneath him, tossed them aside, and reached for a blanket to cover him. He dressed quickly and slipped out, closing the door behind him and leaving Faramir to his dreams, the dreams he seemed to welcome in spite of the pain. He would never understand why Faramir needed him, on this night of all nights, but he would never refuse it.

All warriors had their own demons to purge, he thought, walking through the silent halls. He only wished that Faramir’s did not demand such a price for their release.

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The following people read the story, enjoyed it, and would like to thank the author: Ulaire , Asëa

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RubyElf

For more of RubyElf’s work, visit her LiveJournal.