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24 April 2005 | 8574 words
Warnings: Angst, possibly non-consensual situations, AU
Summary: AU… Aragorn returns to Minas Tirith with the ring and finds and injured Faramir
Feedback: I’d love it… email@example.com
Notes: Well, it’s AU, and Aragorn has the ring. I’ve been lazy and not bothered to go into the details of how that happens, but Aragorn takes over the quest from Frodo and the fellowship splits and Aragorn has a bunch of Isengard’s Orcs as his followers. Definitely not canon! But I’ve wanted to write this for a while now.
Much thanks to Iris for betaing
Faramir could vaguely recollect that he had been struggling to stay awake till he felt the fingers run through his hair and then slowly down his cheek.
He was aching all over, his shoulder burning fiercely, and his head feeling fogged. He was thoroughly exhausted, the cumulative strain of the past many weeks coming to a head. All he wanted to do was sleep, to give into the shadows that danced in front of him, even though a tiny part of him refused to let him. A tiny part of him that kept throwing up horrifying images, of a raging battle, of plains ravaged by an army that seemed uncontainable, and worst of all an angered man whose very words seemed to drag him back into a raging fire…
And then he had felt those fingers and all he had wanted to do was to feel them forever. Feel them touching him… just the touch searing through him, setting up a flurry of emotions that he had never known existed. He was still tired, he still ached, his head seemed ready to burst, and yet all that had receded into some corner of his mind as the feel of those beautiful long fingers on his fevered skin took over every sensation.
He had awoken to that touch, to the face that hovered over him, the one he recognised from dreams he had long reconciled himself to. He had gazed into the grey eyes and felt a strange unbridled desire and a nameless fear rushing through him at the same time.
His king… it was his king… he’d thought to himself, pushing the disquieting fear away… for how could he fear the king who came in his dreams to save Gondor from a terrible fate. He’d looked into those deep grey eyes and he had known that it was the desire that had shown on his face.
The king had laughed softly then and stroked his face gently and bade him to rest and recover his strength. He had clasped Faramir’s hands after that, those same fingers gently squeezing his hands, a gesture the younger man had weakly tried to return.
He wasn’t sure now when that had been. He had slept after that, a deep, dreamless sleep, so unlike the previous days, and it was only on awakening the next day that he’d realised much had changed in Minas Tirith.
He had known his brother was lost, even before the war that raged had reached right outside the city gates. They had heard his horn as a distant roll in the sky many days prior, and then Faramir had had that awful dream, of his brother falling to Orc arrows and barely a day later the pieces of Boromir’s horn had washed up on the shores of the Anduin.
And now, it appeared, his father too was dead – in his grief-maddened state he had thrown himself into the same pyre he had wished to burn Faramir on. The young man could remember riding out to battle and then falling… hitting the ground… and then there was blackness until he had heard somewhere in a half-dream state… fleeting words, his father screaming that he would never let Faramir fall into the clutches of their foes.
But Faramir had been saved by the king who had returned to Minas Tirith as war had raged around the city walls. The king had tried to reason with the Steward who ranted madly at his fevered son’s side but on failing had ridden out to defend the city, returning just in time to save Faramir’s life.
The same king who had taken over the onerous task of saving Middle-earth… Aragorn … the brave and noble man who had taken on the quest to destroy a very powerful but dangerous ring from a halfling. He would lead the armies to Mordor and vanquish the dark forces, he told Faramir, as he held him in his arms while the still ailing young man wept at the loss of so many that were dear to him. Gandalf he had learnt had been slain at Moria, and not just Boromir but also his other companions had been separated from him in a fierce battle against the Uruk Hai. He had no doubt, he told Faramir, that they had not survived for he had found no trace of them, save Boromir’s broken horn which he had sent floating down the Anduin in homage.
Faramir must not worry, the king had said consolingly, all would be well, for he was there now for the younger man.
Faramir had felt a strange stirring in his heart at that… some forlorn hope had been given to him, and he clung to it desperately. Aragorn had pulled him closer.
“I am glad I could save at least you… you must worry no more now… I am here for you… I know you I can count on you.”
“Yes, you can,” Faramir murmured, “you can always count on me, my lord, I am yours to command.”
“I know,” Aragorn replied gently, “I saw it in your eyes, your love, your desire, I assure it is returned, dear one.”
And then Faramir had felt those lips on his, a gentle brush, as though Aragorn knew there was little he could do to assuage the pain of all their losses, but still wished in some way to show him that there was still something he could live for.
“I shall return soon, “ Aragorn promised when he left, leaning forward to kiss Faramir once again. Faramir felt the kiss surge through his body, and pressed forward to deepen it, to assure this beautiful man that he would indeed serve him always, in any and every way.
“I shall return again soon,” Aragorn had breathed out heavily, when he had left, releasing him with obvious reluctance.
It was over the next few days that he came to realise that while he had been saved from his father’s terror-stricken act he may not have been saved from seeing what Denethor had feared. He had not understood at first what it was his father had feared so much but when he found that the king had returned at the head of an army of Orcs that had broken away from the forces of Isengard, who were to help him overthrow the forces of Mordor, he’d understood just what Denethor had been afraid would happen.
He’d been appalled at Aragorn’s action when he’d found out and had tried to question it, but had been told in a tone of such affection, as he had not heard in a long time, to return to his rest, with a promise that all would be fine and glorious before he knew it.
And he’d accepted it, because now there was no one else he would heed, for none were left. And this was the king he had dreamt of after all.
Aragorn would save them all from the darkness. He would destroy that ring as he had set out to do, Faramir was sure. The king he had dreamt of was a noble and pure man. Surely it was his nobility that had persuaded these Orcs to leave the forces of darkness and follow him instead?
Aragorn spent some time with him each day, sitting by him, as he ate, gently stroking Faramir’s hair, his face, his back, his chest, his hands wandering under the thin nightshirt the younger man wore.
Aragorn had then shown him the ring too, a strange innocuous little thing that might seem incapable of harbouring such evil in it. But Faramir knew when he saw it, when he heard what it was and when he heard a voice stirring in his ears, that it was powerful and dangerous.
“You must destroy it if that is what Mithrandir had advised in the council,” he said with a shudder.
A fleeting look had passed through Aragorn’s eyes for the briefest of seconds.
“Would you not like it?” he had asked, “Your father felt it might be of use, when I met him before I led his armies out, after you fell.”
“No!” And Faramir had turned his face away.
Aragorn had left him to rest after that, but he had been unable to. They had not spoken of the ring again.
He moaned softly as their bodies came in contact. He moaned a little louder as he felt the king’s hardness rub against his and then they found themselves falling in each other’s arms onto his tangled sheets. He felt the robe he wore being moved up, a draught of cool air hit his naked lower body and then the warm nakedness of his king covered him.
The fingers were beautiful, long and slender, yet strong. They were roughened by the years, yet the touch was soft as they wandered over his face and neck. Faramir moaned into the touch, as they wandered down to his collarbone, tracing patterns into the scars on his bare chest, carefully avoiding the still healing wounds.
“My Lord,” he murmured softly.
“Aragorn… my name is Aragorn.”
“Aragorn,” he moaned.
“Say that again, my precious heart,” came the sensual voice he craved to hear.
“Aragorn,” he repeated, half sobbing now, as the fingers settled on his left nipple, pinching lightly.
“My sweet and gentle Faramir, the only one who loves me unconditionally,” Aragorn whispered into his ear, as he spread his body over Faramir’s naked form. The younger man gasped a little as his wounded shoulder was pressed, so Aragorn shifted slightly.
“Dearest,” he moaned into his ear as he ground himself against Faramir’s arousal. Faramir arched up to meet him, ignoring the pains flaring through his weary body. He could move only one hand, so he placed that on Aragorn’s back encouraging him to press down harder and faster. All his aches were forgotten as the heat pooled in his lower belly.
He felt the sticky wetness spread over his lower belly. Aragorn rose off him, and suddenly with the weight gone, all the pain returned with a vengeance. He groaned a pain-filled sound that caused Aragorn to look up sharply while he dressed.
“What is it, love, would you like some more?” the king asked, laughing.
And then the blackness swept over him, as he succumbed to exhaustion and pain, awakening only briefly when Aragorn tucked his covers around him and bade him sleep awhile.
When he woke up the next time, they made love right there on his bed.
He spent the next few days in his chambers as Aragorn had said he should, undisturbed, for his role as Aragorn’s bedmate was quite clear to all in the citadel. He heard a little of what happened outside the citadel, of how the citizenry had been charmed by the new king despite the Orcs he led, and of how they were planning battles day and night. He did want to fight by his lord’s side but he was still too weak and he knew that as well as Aragorn.
It would take time to organise the armies, he knew, and to get all the stores for the march to Mordor in place, and yet, he wondered, was it not more pressing to destroy the ring. He tried, once, to question Aragorn about it.
“Don’t you worry about it, my sweet one,” Aragorn had murmured, before claiming his lips in a passionate kiss, “I know what to do with it.”
Faramir quelled the feeling of disquiet that was beginning to grow in his heart. Aragorn was a good and honourable man… a man destined to be a wise and excellent ruler of men.
He despaired at his slow recovery; he was too exhausted to be able to get enough rest and the tread of Orcs outside his door made him strangely uneasy though Aragorn had promised him often that these were Orcs who had left the dark side. He even had some as his personal guard he told him. The Orc captain who led Aragorn’s personal guard was the one who left Faramir most uneasy, but Aragorn would simply smile when he confided his worries to him.
“You worry too much. Boromir told me that of you.”
And that mention of his brother had made Faramir even more despondent and unhappy.
“I shall return when you feel better,” Aragorn had said and Faramir had thought he detected a strain of impatience in his voice.
He didn’t see Aragorn again for the rest of the day as he sat in his rooms fretting over his behaviour. When the door creaked open he looked up to see Aragorn standing there, observing him closely. He sat up hastily and tried to smile.
“You’re back,” he said and he knew the relief in his tone was evident.
“Do you feel better now?” he asked, gently fingering the sash on the long robe he wore.
“Yes,” he replied softly, knowing instinctively, just as he’d always known with his father that somehow he had, even if in a smaller way, disappointed Aragorn, “I’m sorry,” he added quietly.
“You need not apologise,” Aragorn replied.
“Undress and get on to your knees, sweetest,” Aragorn said, unknotting the sash and loosening his robes.
He did so promptly, hurriedly flinging off the thin robe, which was all he wore. He wished for nothing more than that Aragorn make love to him, always. As it was, he came to visit Faramir barely once a day.
He got onto his knees eagerly, resting his injured shoulder on the bed, and then laid his head on his crossed arms. Aragorn pulled off his own robes and moved behind him and then spitting into his fingers, prepared him quickly and entered him in one swift motion. Faramir tried not to cry out from the sudden pain of Aragorn’s swollen member breaching him and filling the tight passage. He grunted softly as Aragorn suddenly pulled back and thrust in again, more forcefully this time. His arms slipped and he fell forward but the hands digging into his waist and hips held him in place. The pain continued, radiating up his lower back, but he ignored it, wanting the pleasure that he knew would follow for was this not his beloved Aragorn? He automatically spread his legs wider.
He could hear Aragorn moaning into his ear, murmuring garbled words and he realised he too was mumbling incoherently, begging Aragorn to push into him harder. He felt himself being pulled against the king’s body, and cried out as his shoulder flared in pain too. Aragorn began thrusting harder now, pushing deeper and deeper into him. His hand roved over Faramir’s body, stroking the flat stomach, and finally closed around his hardening member. Aragorn long fingers rapidly stroked the now hard shaft, sending a bevy of sensations coursing through Faramir’s veins. He felt a pleasure unlike before, almost painful in its intensity, his excited muscles clenching around Aragorn’s member, until finally the king hit that one spot inside him. He cried aloud then, and Aragorn pushed him there once again, at the same time clenching his arousal. He cried out aloud as he came, and then felt Aragorn’s release spurting inside him, as he lay there breathing heavily, with his king slumped over him.
“Mmm… ,” Aragorn nuzzled his shoulder, “Such a tasty little thing you are… would you like to hear what else I would do with you, my lovely little princeling?”
“Yes,” Faramir breathed out heavily.
“I would first take your wrists and tie them to the bedpost with my sash and then I would take your ankles, and – “
He never did get to hear what Aragorn would do after that for a knock on the door interrupted them harshly.
“What is it?” Aragorn roared out angrily, a tone Faramir had never heard him use and which, strangely, scared him. Aragorn seemed to notice his involuntary flinch for he promptly and very gently ran his fingers through Faramir’s hair.
“News from our spies in Rohan,” an Orc at the door said, “there is an army gathering there, under the banners of Gondor and Mirkwood and…”
“Enough!” Aragorn snapped, and pulled his robes on quickly, “Stay here, dearest,” he told Faramir and rose.
Faramir stirred in surprise, “An army under Gondor’s banner? In Rohan… but who would…?”
And then he gasped, “Can I come with you?” A banner from Gondor… who else could it be, after all? And did not Aragorn say he searched for traces of his companions and found none… perhaps they had survived after all?
“Perhaps Bor –” he began excitedly, and tried to rise, unmindful of his nakedness and the obvious signs of their recent lovemaking still showing on his lower body. The Orc’s eyes gleamed as they fell on him, but Faramir ignored the intrusive look for once.
“I told you to stay here,” Aragorn snapped out, placing hand on his shoulder to restrain him from rising, “You will stay here. I will not be disobeyed.”
“I shall not repeat myself!”
Faramir continued to lie there tiredly even after Aragorn had left. His muscles felt sore and he was exhausted, and Aragorn’s tone with him had worried him. But the news he had heard had sent a small spark of hope into his heart.
Perhaps… Boromir still lived…?
He made up his mind. Rising, he pulled on his robe and then walked slowly and stiffly out of the room.
He turned into the corridor and stopped in confusion, unsure of how to proceed. He had never been allowed in this wing before. A group of Orcs stood at one end and the leader appeared to notice him. They promptly barred his progress.
“You cannot leave!” the Orc captain informed him, and grabbed his arm, turning him around.
“Let go of me,” Faramir retorted.
The captain simply shoved the young man over to two of his soldiers.
“Take him back to his chambers,” he ordered, “And inform his king that he has broken the rules.”
Before Faramir could utter a protest, they had dragged him back down the corridor, got the door open and pushed him onto his bed. The Captain followed them. Standing at the door, he glared at the dazed young ranger.
“I have ways of making people obey me. My soldiers will be only too happy to teach you obedience but the king may object to their methods! But who knows now. He will be very angry when he hears of what you tried to do.”
They shut the door as they left and there was no mistaking the sound of the heavy bolt being drawn across it. Faramir lay sprawled on the sheets, biting his lower lip. All he’d wanted to do was to meet with the spy from Rohan and find out if they knew aught of Boromir there. Who else could have the banners of Gondor flying there after all?
And now Aragorn would be angry with him too. Silent tears rolled down his pale cheeks.
The sound of the bolt being drawn made him look up. The door pushed open to reveal Aragorn. The Orc captain and two guards stood behind him, their faces gleeful.
Faramir stared at then in surprise, “Aragorn,” he said struggling to rise, hurriedly wiping the tear tracks off his cheeks.
“Stay!” the older man said, a frown marring his handsome features. He stood in front of the young lord, with his hands behind his back.
“Please do not be angry with me,” Faramir pleaded, knowing it would be in vain. Of course, Aragorn would be angry. Faramir always managed to anger those who were most important to him, except Boromir.
“I am very angry with you,” Aragorn retorted, “You have disobeyed me, Faramir. You tried to leave the room. You tried to leave me.”
“I would never leave you,” Faramir said, his voice soft and sad, “I merely wished to -”
“You tried to leave this room against my orders and you must be penalised for that, is it not?” Aragorn cut in furiously.
Faramir lowered his head.
“Look up,” Aragorn’s voice was like ice.
Faramir raised his gaze and stared in fascinated horror at the whip that Aragorn now held in his hands . A single flick of the wrist sent a cracking noise reverberating through the room. Then Aragorn handed the whip to the Orc who smiled horribly at Faramir.
“Undress and kneel over there,” Aragorn ordered, indicating the stone bench by the window.
He stood uncertainly. Aragorn’s expression was cold and hard.
“It will hurt you more if you are whipped on your front than your back, dearest,” Aragorn said patiently as he motioned the Orc captain forward, “Undress now, or he will do it for you.”
Faramir shuddered as the Orc leered at him. He took off the single robe he wore and then knelt over the bench, knowing as he did that the eyes of all the Orc soldiers were trained hungrily on his naked body.
Aragorn nodded in satisfaction and stepped back.
“Whip him,” he ordered, “Until I tell you to stop.”
The bench was cold against his chest and abdomen. From where he lay Faramir could see Aragorn watching intently, the grey eyes cold and narrowed. The whip landed across his back, cutting into his skin. He bit his lip to keep from crying out but he couldn’t help it when it landed the second time, cutting into the tender flesh of his buttocks.
His cries died out to soft moans as the thick lashes rained across his bare back, buttocks and thighs, cutting the skin in various places. Above him the other Orcs continued to leer at him as he was whipped, their mouths salivating, their eyes gleaming with a greedy lustfulness. One even rubbed himself with his hand.
Aragorn too continued to watch, hands clasped behind his back, mouth pursed, his grey eyes were completely expressionless.
Tears trickled from Faramir’s face, as he finally heard Aragorn’s cold tones commanding the captain to stop. The last thing he heard before slipping into a painful unconsciousness was the sneering voices of the other orcs.
When he came to he was lying on soft white sheets of silk, still unclad, his back and buttocks feeling raw and painful. Aragorn, still in the robes he wore earlier, was holding him. The golden ring, Faramir noticed blearily, hung from the chain around his neck.
Aragorn’s hands were slipping between Faramir’s legs to stroke him. Faramir felt himself harden even as he tried to figure out where he was.
“You’re awake,” Aragorn said in a pleased tone, “I knew I could wake you up by my mere touch.”
He was on his bed now, he realised dreamily as the fingers snaked into his most intimate regions, stroking him, pinching him lightly, the mere touch seeming to take him away from the pain coursing through his back. He moaned lustily in response.
“Louder darling,” Aragorn encouraged, and nodded towards the other side of the room.
Faramir followed his gaze through tired eyes and gasped as he noticed the Orc captain and his two lieutenants standing there watching him. He looked around himself once again, realising that he lay in Aragorn’s arms with his legs spread out wide, every inch of his body exposed to the feasting eyes of the three Orcs.
Aragorn began fondling him roughly now, even as the three Orcs leered, “I could give you to them,” he said calmly, “To use as they please. I could have you tied up and helpless for them to indulge in each of their whims and fancies and I’m sure you know they have many.”
With that, he suddenly shoved Faramir towards the largest of the three.
“If anything has happened to Faramir, I do not know what I will do,” Boromir said unhappily.
“Nothing shall happen him to him,” Legolas said persistently.
“To sit here, doing nothing,” Boromir fretted.
“We are not doing ‘nothing’. Remember, Gandalf and Elrond have counselled and planned this out. They know what they do.”
“I should hope so!” Boromir said glumly.
Faramir gasped as the Orcs rushed at him. He scrabbled away on his hands and knees, crying out. The leering creature came closer, and the stench from its mouth had Faramir nearly gagging. He sank to the floor in a stupor, his breath coming out in rasps, his back seemed on fire. The Orc leaned over him, its gloved hand reaching for his legs. Faramir whimpered miserably as the hand landed on his aching groin.
“Stop!” Aragorn said calmly, as the second one neared Faramir.
The Orcs turned to him expectantly, even as Faramir cowered, breathing heavily, covering himself ineffectually with his hands.
“Leave!” Aragorn commanded.
The Orcs shrugged in disappointment but left.
“The next time, I will not stop them,” Aragorn said calmly, and beckoned the still dazed Faramir towards him.
Faramir obeyed, rising, and almost falling back. He stumbled over to where Aragorn sat on the bed, and at Aragorn’s signal, knelt over the bed. Aragorn stood, undid his robe and raising Faramir’s hips, nudged his legs apart and repeated the now familiar routine unceremoniously.
Faramir felt little pleasure as the king thrust into him repeatedly. All he felt was a tremendous ache in his heart to parallel the one that coursed through his lower back. He knew what he had feared was happening. Aragorn was fast being pulled into the influence of the ring, and none could stop him, least of all he, in his weakened state.
When Aragorn finally rose off him, the younger man was tired beyond endurance. He lay slumped over the bed, the sheets soiled by the release that he could not help. His fingers clutched the soft silk tightly, as he lay there, breathing heavily, his legs splayed apart, Aragorn’s release coating his bruised buttocks and thighs. He tried to get up, dragging his legs up, and instead fell face-first on the bed, collapsing into the soiled sheets.
“See what you make me do to you?” Aragorn said sadly, as he retied his robe, “You must never behave in such a bad manner again, do you hear me?
Faramir simply laid there, unwanted tears coursing down his cheeks.
“Soon,” Legolas said softly to the distraught warrior who paced Théoden King’s chambers incessantly.
“How soon?” Boromir demanded, “Aragorn has the ring, we know naught of how it has affected him, save that he is in Minas Tirith and plans to attack Sauron with an army of Orcs! And my father is dead and none knows of my brother! And Aragorn still holds the ring!”
“You know Gandalf and Elrond know what they must do. Do not fear. All shall be well. Faramir shall be well,” Gimli said gruffly, as the three of them sat through another agonising day as Théoden mustered his troops.
> Faramir lay huddling miserably on his bed. He felt cold and tired, and he ached all over. Aragorn had visited him twice each day for the last few days, but Faramir no longer felt as he had hoped to once. And he knew Aragorn was realising it too. There was little pleasure in their coupling now, at least none for him. Faramir could no longer even pretend to himself that he still liked it. All he felt was pain; the pleasures he once felt by mere touch of Aragorn’s hands on his bare skin, the fulfilment that having Aragorn inside him once produced, all seemed feelings from a distant dream of the past. Now every session with Aragorn left him in painful tears, and yet he could not refuse him. Each time he willingly gave in to Aragorn.
He curled up unhappily as he heard the door creak open, and Aragorn’s silhouette filled the doorway. The other man walked in slowly up to the bed, and with each nearing footstep, Faramir’s heart beat a little faster. He could feel cold metal against his hip through his robe as Aragorn bent over him, the little ring still dangling from his neck on the chain. He gasped almost in pain but Aragorn just smiled.
“The Orc army has left for Mordor,” Aragorn told him as he sat down on the bed next to him forcing him to turn and look into those grey eyes that he had once thought were loving.
Faramir stared at him quietly through wary eyes.
“And I leave tomorrow with the rest of Gondor’s army. Will you not bid me farewell?”
“You go to destroy the ring?” Faramir asked hopefully.
“I go to defeat Sauron,” Aragorn said gently.
He felt the bile rise to his throat, “But you must destroy the ring for that Aragorn,” he said desperately.
Aragorn just smiled again.
“You must,” Faramir repeated insistently, sitting up, not with little difficulty.
“So pure,” Aragorn mused softly, as though he had not heard him, “So uncorrupted by power and greed and lust. You truly do not want this power do you? All the others did. I could see it in their eyes. Even Frodo though he tried to resist. And Gandalf would not even take it in his hand.” He crooked a finger under Faramir’s chin and turned his face up towards him so that their eyes met.
Faramir stared back at him in horror. Unbridled lust shone from Aragorn’s eyes.
“You are so like him, dearest. You will not even take it in your hand,” Aragorn mused, “What will you do now, dear one? Will you serve me as you promised, or will you serve some other?”
“Not with the ring,” Faramir said unhappily.
“The Deceiver awaits us all in his dark tower, dear one. I can defeat him with this ring. And then all will be fine, you’ll see.”
“Not like this,” Faramir repeated, “You must destroy the ring.”
“It will help me,” Aragorn said, “You shall see, should you decide you are going to serve me as I desire, and not indulge in these meaningless little revolts! You will serve me, will you not?”
Faramir shook his head mutely, and watched almost terrified as Aragorn’s expression changed to one of fury.
The king darted forward and pulled him out of the bed violently. Faramir fell, sprawling on the floor, his foot catching in his robes.
“You dare refuse me again?” Aragorn asked coldly, whipping the robe off Faramir. The younger man tried to get up, only to be pushed onto his back, as Aragorn undid his own clothes revealing his arousal.
“You must destroy it,” Faramir repeated desperately, “You do not see what it does –”
A harsh slap across his face stunned him into silence. He raised a trembling hand to his aching cheek, his eyes blurring with tears as Aragorn glared at him furiously.
“I ask you again, will you serve me as I desire?” Aragorn asked coldly.
Faramir stared back at him in fear but said nothing.
“I have let you have your own way far too long,” Aragorn retorted furiously, grabbing Faramir by his arms and shaking him hard, “You will serve me, whether you wish to or not. I have put up with your pathetic behaviour these last few days, but now I will show you. I shall not be refused. You shall submit to me, and I shall have you as I please when I please!”
He gripped the thin wrists painfully and shoved Faramir onto his back again, forcing him to cry out in pain as his still injured shoulder was wrenched. Ignoring the cry, Aragorn used his free hand to grip Faramir’s legs and push them up and apart. Then he brutally shoved his erection into Faramir’s passage, quickly and painfully breaching him. Faramir cried out in pain. Aragorn ignored him and thrust harder into him, deliberately painful, clearly intent on hurting him. Faramir screamed again as his under prepared muscles were stretched.
“Don’t,” he gasped out, “Please don’t… I would not refuse you… but for the ring, you know that,” he pleaded repeated, but Aragorn took no notice of him. The ring swayed lazily above Faramir as he wept.
“You lie! Traitor,” Aragorn spat at him, as he continued to push into him, “I truly desired you and you return my love with treachery!”
He repeatedly pulled out only to slam back into Faramir, each time with increasing force, still holding the wrists down with one hand, so that the injured shoulder was pulled at harshly. His other hand clenched Faramir’s waist, digging into the pale, tender skin, as he pulled him towards him with each thrust.
Faramir sobbed each time Aragorn slammed into him one more time, the words biting into him. His legs were splayed in the air now, as he lay impaled on Aragorn’s hard flesh. Pain flared through every muscle and sinew, increasingly spiralling his overwrought mind away from consciousness.
Somewhere through the haze of agony coursing through him, he heard a door crash open, the sound cutting through the loud grunts and angry words spilling out of Aragorn’s hard mouth.
“Aragorn!” the cry reverberated from the door. Spots danced in front of Faramir’s eyes, as Aragorn pulled roughly out of him, released his wrists and let his legs fall to the ground. He landed in a crumpled heap on the hard, cold floor.
The last thing he saw was a brilliant flash of white before the blackness overcame his distraught mind.
The muster from Rohan had stopped to camp by a stream for the night when the message reached them tied to the leg of a hawk.
“It is from Elrond,” Legolas said, his eyes shining, “They have reached Minas Tirith.”
Boromir jumped up, “What else do they say?” he demanded.
“Naught, save that they will send another message soon.”
“I should have gone ahead with them,” Boromir moaned fretfully.
“Nay, laddie, you know you were needed to help Théoden and Éomer lead the troops,” Gimli said gently, but it didn’t help console Boromir much, who continued to pace up and down the camp.
Faramir awoke to a soft, lilting voice that called to him. He lay with his eyes closed for a few seconds, trying to place the voice, only to realise he could not even recall where he was. He remembered waking up to another voice, many days ago it seemed. The King had returned. His eyes flew open and he sat up with a start. Some unbidden memory had come to him of a darkness enveloping Minas Tirith.
“Don’t!” came a sharp voice, even as pain shot through his body like searing spikes. His numb limbs cried in protest and he groaned.
He knew that voice. Mithrandir. But – Mithrandir was dead, was he not?
“Mithrandir,” he said hoarsely, “You’re alive?”
“Yes, and I’m glad to see you’re awake,” the Istar said quietly, “You had us worried.”
There was another in the room. An Elf.
“Let him rest,” this elf said suddenly.
“What happened?” Faramir asked, as a wave of memories returned of the events he had endured. And yet, where was Aragorn, and who was this Elf and how had Mithrandir come here? The wizard would not meet his gaze.
“Elrond is right, you must rest,” he murmured instead.
Elrond… Lord of Imladris… here? Faramir stared up in shock. He felt as though he were in a dream, as though all he could remember going through had been merely a nightmare, and yet, as he saw the two ancient faces in front of him, he knew.
It was no dream.
“Aragorn?” he asked, his voice almost a whisper, dreading the response as he remembered that blinding flash of light.
“He is sleeping,” Gandalf said.
“But –but… he was… the ring… it… ,” he felt the panic begin to edge into his voice.
“The ring is destroyed now,” Elrond told him wearily, “You have been unconscious for a few days now.”
Faramir stared at him incomprehendingly.
“And Aragorn?” Faramir repeated, still seeing the anger in those cold, uncompromising eyes.
“He will recover,” Elrond said firmly, having guessed all that Faramir wished not to voice, “But you must rest now, you have been through much, and you will need to heal.”
And he knew he could hide nothing from these two.
“Everything is all right now,” Elrond said softly, “And Boromir is soon on his way back from Rohan.”
“Boromir!” Faramir exclaimed, remembering what the Orc captain had said. Then…
“He is – he is all right?” he asked anxiously.
“Yes indeed, and anxious to see you. We thought we’d have to restrain him to prevent him arriving with us until he was reminded Théoden and Éomer could use the help of a good general and Gondor needs a Steward.”
Faramir took a deep breath as he remembered his father. But Boromir… at least that was some good news, he thought tiredly. Boromir was well.
They would not let him speak more, suggesting instead that he try and get some rest. He welcomed the suggestion, for he needed to think and besides, Aragorn’s last evening with him had left him feeling extremely sore even now.
Elrond examined him when he awoke next, to his great mortification; the soft hand feeling his legs and probing between his buttocks carefully to see how the injuries Aragorn had inflicted on him now fared, fingering them lightly to watch Faramir’s reaction so as to gauge the extent of healing. He examined the marks left by the whipping too. For some reason Faramir found himself telling Elrond it was the Orc captain who had whipped him. Elrond simply nodded in response.
“And the other injuries… dud the Orcs inflict those too?” Gandolaf asked, his tone inscrutable.
“I have no other injuries,” Faramir said quietly.
“You have -,” Gandalf started but went silent as Faramir turned away his gaze.
By the end of the examination, Faramir’s face was streaked with silent tears of embarrassment and pain. Elrond had not remarked on the tears.
The next few days he spent in bed as ordered to by Elrond and Gandalf for he was determined to recover before his brother returned. He had no desire to explain any of his injuries to him.
Gandalf told him all that had occurred as he lay there.
Elrond, Gandalf and the young halfling ringbearer had ridden to Minas Tirith with an army of elves that had been mustered from among those fighting the armies of Dol Guldur. By the time they had reached the city, however, the larger portion of Aragorn’s Orc army had already marched out for the Black Gate headed by the Orc commander. Gandalf had had no trouble entering Minas Tirith and locating Aragorn, rapt as he had been in forcing Faramir’s submission.
Gandalf had not admitted it openly to Faramir but had it not been for the king’s fascination with the younger man, they may not have caught up with him in time.
They had wrested the ring from him and even as the Orc army from Gondor clashed with Sauron’s forces the ring had finally been destroyed by the young halfling who had returned with Elrond and Gandalf and then had flown to Mount Doom on the back of a great eagle.
Aragorn had finally been healed by Elrond, who Gandalf said was the greatest healer of their time, the evil influence of the ring no longer resided in him, and Gondor would have the king it needed.
Things were returning to normal, Gandalf said with a forced cheerfulness.
By the time Boromir returned, to the fanfare that welcomed the Steward into the city, things were even closer to normal. The city was beginning to pick itself up again, the signs of battle were less conspicuous and people came out onto the streets and even cheered and handed out flowers as the small procession wound its way up to the citadel. And Faramir was able to walk up to the courtyard and greet him there.
They had a short and tearful but joyous reunion, hugging each other tight, trying to control their emotions unsuccessfully, before they were all swept inside by Elrond and Gandalf.
“Where is Aragorn?” Boromir asked anxiously, as they all trooped into the great hall of the citadel, his arm draped around his younger brother’s thin shoulders keeping him close.
“Yes,” put in Gimli, “You said in your second missive that he was unwell but your next message said that he is well now and…”
“He is,” Elrond said, “He will be awakening shortly. He has been quite unwell.”
“As has Faramir, I think,” Boromir said inquiringly, his eyes boring into his brother’s thinned frame and pale features.
“I am well now,” Faramir murmured tiredly.
“He is still recovering from his injuries,” Elrond cut in with an exasperated look at Faramir, “He should not have been out in the courtyard, but he was so insistent on wanting to see you that I did not want to stop him.”
“I am well now,” Faramir repeated dully, looking all set to retreat into a shell.
Boromir hugged him gently, “Ssh, do not fret so. We just care for you, you know that. And you have looked better. I heard you were injured defending the city.”
“A scratch,” Faramir began but then quietened as Boromir shook his head smiling. He allowed himself to be pulled into the elder man’s embrace and stayed there, snuggling into the familiar warmth, and wishing he could remain there ensconced in that comfort with nothing to worry about. He’d missed his brother so much all these months!
“Come meet the others,” Boromir said gently, and urged Faramir towards Legolas, Gimli, Éomer and three more halflings.
A young apprentice from the houses of healing scurried into the room and handed a message to Elrond who coughed insistently.
“The healers say Aragorn is awakening. Would you all like to see him? Faramir, you should return to bed.”
“No, let him come too. I’ll take him back to his room myself after that,” Boromir insisted and swept the younger man along with him. Faramir risked a panicked glance at Elrond, who returned a completely expressionless look.
When they reached Aragorn’s chambers, Faramir stood to one side, leaning heavily against the wall. Elrond and Boromir sat by Aragorn’s bedside. The others were there too. The halflings, Mithrandir, and the Elf from Mirkwood and the Dwarf.
Aragorn came awake slowly, moaning softly. Faramir clenched his fists as he heard the pain in the soft sounds. The others gathered around the bed, exclaiming gently, and for a few minutes Faramir’s view of Aragorn was completely blocked.
He used the time to compose himself, schooling his face to show nothing as the sounds of happy reunions filtered through his numbed brain. He should not have been here. What would Aragorn say? How could they tell the others all that had occurred between them? He should have left… he could still leave… he should… he backed away, breathing rapidly, unwilling to look at Aragorn’s deep, grey eyes.
“You must be Faramir!” the voice stopped him in is tracks and he glanced up unsteadily, nodding warily.
“You look just like your brother,” Aragorn said smiling warmly, and then sank back wearily against the pillows.
He nodded again dumbly, as the others resumed prattling merrily.
He hadn’t recognised him…
He didn’t remember… _I needn’t have worried, he does not remember, he never will… _
Faramir stumbled out and went straight back to his room where he curled miserably into the bed, and wept softly into the pillows until he fell asleep from the exhaustion of the day’s events, waking only the next morning, to find Boromir at his bedside.
“Elrond said you were to rest,” Boromir said gently, “So I brought your breakfast here.”
Faramir tried to smile gratefully.
“I never got to speak to you afterward yesterday. How have you been? Elrond said you were injured in the battle. What happened? And I hear there were Orcs in the citadel later and that they kept you captive… did they – did they -?” he asked anxiously, gathering his younger brother gently into his arms, “You can… you can tell me… if they ever touched you…”
“No, the King – he would not let them,” Faramir replied. It was true, after all. Aragorn had never let the Orcs harm him, save for the whipping and that had merely hurt him. Even when he’d threatened to let them truly harm him, he had stopped them before they could come near Faramir.
Boromir nodded, “He is a good man. I knew he would never be corrupted by the ring.”
Faramir did not reply. He simply hunched miserably into his brother’s embrace.
“I missed you,” he said quietly, after a while. Boromir’s arms tightened about him.
Later in the afternoon, he went out into the balcony and sat there quietly watching the way the sun shone above them onto the gardens below full of singing birds and blooming flowers.
Elrond found him there and sat by him.
“He remembers nothing,” he said after a while, watching Faramir’s face carefully, “He never will.”
Faramir nodded dully.
Aragorn remembered nothing… not the way he had made love to Faramir, at first caring and loving and then hurtful… not Faramir’s declarations of love for him, not his declarations of love to Faramir in which the young man had always heard sincerity, not the way he had forced himself into a still not completely unwilling Faramir.
“That is better for all,” he said quietly, “I too shall try to forget, and the others must never know. Especially not Boromir.”
Elrond stared at him for a while before speaking, “Do your wounds hurt any more?” he asked.
“They will heal,” Faramir replied.
Elrond rose, and grasped him gently by the shoulders.
“I wish you well, Lord Faramir,” he said softly, but his eyes were full of a deep sadness. Faramir looked away.
“Thank you, Lord Elrond,” he mumbled, his eyes trained to the floor, taking in the patterns of the swirls in the wooden panels.
“Is there anything I can do for you?” Elrond asked. He badly wanted to aid this aching young man in any little way he could.
Faramir was about to refuse when his eyes fell on the beautiful garden
below. He looked up hesitantly into the warm eyes of the elf lord.
The wind rustled through the branches, cool and gentle full of sweet smells. He would have preferred to walk on his own, but his own body had betrayed him. The flight of steps leading from his room to the garden was long and winding, and he had been glad of the support Elrond offered for he had felt dizziness and nausea overcome him mid-way. And the air did refresh him.
He sat quietly on a bench shaded by a large leafy tree. Elrond sat by him. After a while, something fell over his shoulders and he shied away in surprise. It was a cloak. A warm, elven cloak.
“It is getting cold,” came Elrond’s soft voice, “Do you wish to go back inside?”
He shook his head, a slight shake that might almost have gone unnoticed. There was nothing for him to do inside, he had realised during the day. They would not let him return to his entire list of duties as yet, so he found he had little to do. He could sleep, but sleep brought its own horrors.
The hand stayed on his shoulder as he continued to look out unseeingly, until familiar voices cut through the quiet.
“Faramir!” Boromir said delightedly, “Lord Elrond, I see you have sought the gardens too. Aragorn wished to have a walk here,” he said.
Faramir looked up sharply, trying to calm his screaming nerves, as Aragorn walked slowly down the steps that led into the garden.
“Faramir,” he said smiling at the younger man who stared back at him mutely, taking in the familiar features, the lively grey eyes, the pale features, “How do you fare… they tell me the orcs kept us captive… I remember little but Boromir says you have been injured in battle… I hope you are recovered now?”
He nodded mutely.
“Good lad,” Aragorn said. He reached a hand out to touch the pale cheek in a gesture of affection, and was almost horrified at the way Faramir flinched violently, though he regained his composure almost immediately.
Aragorn looked at Boromir in distress.
“Back inside now, Faramir,” Elrond said briskly, in a futile attempt to disperse the tension in the air, “You still need rest.”
“I’m sorry, Aragorn,” Boromir said softly, “He is not yet comfortable with strangers…”
“I would not blame him,” Aragorn replied gently, but the breeze still carried his voice to Faramir’s unhappy ears, “Orcs do not make kind captors.”
“And yet he could have been through worse if it were not for you,” Boromir said gratefully, “I – we – could not thank you enough for that.”
“You mustn’t,” Aragorn said sadly, “I remember naught.”
Between themselves, Aragorn and Boromir managed to sort out their duties with a surprising level of efficiency. As king and steward they got along famously, and the citadels was once again full of the sounds of laughter, a far cry from the way it had been in Denethor’s times, cold and forbidding.
Aragorn had just one tiny issue though; the solemn young man who aided his Steward. He stood now formally before him with a letter from the Haradric envoy he had been negotiating peace treaties with.
“My liege?” the young man said as he bowed and handed over the latter
“Call me Aragorn, Faramir, please?” the King said smiling at his Steward’s younger brother.
Large grey eyes stared back at him. Then Faramir shook his head slightly, almost distressed, “Nay My Liege,” he said quietly, “That would be unseemly.”
“You have to excuse him, Aragorn. He’s very conscious of protocol,” Boromir said laughing, “That’s why he’s such a fine diplomat, though I do think, Faramir if Aragorn wishes you to do something, you should!”
Faramir’s face turned even more distressed at that.
Aragorn sighed, “No it is all right. You may address me as you wish.”
Faramir nodded quietly and left.
He did call his king Aragorn sometimes… in the quiet darkness of his chambers each night as his thoughts wandered back incessantly to those few days that he had tried to forget all as Aragorn had, but could not. They stayed with him always, memories etched sharply in his mind, some horrifying, some not as horrifying, but refusing to fade, and forever leaving him with a strange yearning that he knew would never be fulfilled ever.
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