Faramir Fiction Archive

Casualties of War (NC-17)

Written by December

12 October 2010 | 15606 words

Beregond stifled a gasp, trying to adjust to being touched on the inside. He looked into Faramir’s face keenly, hoping to see affirmation that his lord understood it was a little difficult for him, that he would appreciate some patience and care. Not that he was afraid of pain, he merely did not wish his lord, whom he so loved, to disregard his feelings in that moment. And Faramir looked back at him – again, with that strange smile, only now his eyes were distinctly dilated with ripe avidity, and his face seemed to have become somehow sterner, almost hard. But his touch was not inconsiderate or ungentle, and just one finger, even though it had already gone quite deep into the younger man’s body, was not much of a challenge to accommodate.

“You have a good arse, my dear,” Faramir muttered a little hoarsely, his up-to-then unfazed even tone now distinctly giving way to lust. “Very pert – and very tight. Oh, it shall be such a joy to take you.”

“And you are very generously made, my lord,” Beregond said in return.

He had meant it as a compliment, but Faramir apparently interpreted his words otherwise.

“Oh, don’t be alarmed. This is a good match. This way we shall both find great pleasure. And I won’t harm you if we prepare you properly, tomorrow you shall be perfectly fit to resume your duties.”

‘Properly’ meant, above all, without rushing. So for a while the Ranger carried on with his ministrations, twisting his finger this way and that, pushing it in to the knuckle, then, much to Beregond’s distress, withdrawing completely. Now that he had established the contact, he was kissing Beregond again, sucking on the guard’s lips and hungrily pushing his tongue inside the younger man’s mouth.

When Beregond had fully relaxed, eagerly pushing back, finding he could feel quite a sweet, albeit unusual, pleasure this way – Faramir began to work another finger into him alongside the first.

“Breathe,” he told the guard, when Beregond squirmed uncomfortably beneath him, “breathe deeply, Beregond – it helps.”

And it did. Not at once, but eventually it did, and to his considerable amazement Beregond discovered he could take two fingers almost as easily as one.

“You are… so patient with me,” Beregond murmured tenderly. His lust, coupled with the way he trusted his captain to handle his body thus, had filled him with great warmth and affection for Faramir, far greater even than before. He let himself thread his fingers through the loose locks hanging alongside the older man’s face. He had always admired the lord’s hair, its pitch-black colour so deep, so intense, nothing like Beregond’s own warm chocolaty brown. The guard had always liked the way sun shone on this hair, as though scattering stars over its glossy smoothness, argent on sable – and now it looked like a sheet of midnight, lightless and impenetrable, coolly streaming over his fingers.

“Of course I am patient,” Faramir replied gently, looking at him a little curiously, as though surprised his patience, even amid all his apparent need, was not taken as something to be expected. And for a moment his face seemed softer and sadder, more like the face of the man Beregond had always hungered for.

Then Faramir propped himself on his elbow, keenly watching the guard’s face. “Now, this should feel nice,” he said expectantly, curling his fingers up inside Beregond’s body.

“Oh, it does,” Beregond breathed out in wonder, his eyes widening.

“Good,” Faramir grinned with a corner of his mouth, and gave the sweet spot another forceful stroke. Beregond sucked his breath and arched up against him. “When I take you,” the Ranger added, “it is this place we should strive to bring in contact with my prick. Then you shall come like you would not imagine it.”

“Yes, my lord,” Beregond murmured dreamily, shutting his eyes. “Thank you, my lord…”

While his fingers were exploring Beregond’s inner softness, warming up his muscles, and teaching him to enjoy it, Faramir was grinding his whole body against the guard’s front, pressing strongly and tightly, as though already claiming him. And now that the enjoyment had reached such an unforeseen degree, quite without planning to Beregond reached down to lay his palms on Faramir’s delectable backside, and gripped its firm flesh in an effort to bring them even closer. The touch, however, seemed to have startled the captain, and instantly Beregond withdrew.

“Oh, please excuse me…” He had definitely allowed himself too much. It was, after all, his own arse, and not the lord’s, that was going to yield to a cock.

Faramir looked down into his face. “Nay, go ahead,” the older man said with a toss of his head. “Seeing as I am in your bed, you may as well touch me.”

“’Tis not my bed, ’tis my brother’s,” Beregond replied a little dumbly, before realising his lord had been speaking to some extent figuratively.

But Faramir only snorted, and retorted merrily, “All right, then I shall fuck you in your brother’s bed.” At this he leant in and bit into Beregond’s mouth with a hard demanding kiss. Beregond found it a little odd that Lord Faramir should deem his clumsy reply so amusing, as though it was some highly witty double-bottomed joke – but as he returned the kiss, all irrelevant thoughts left his mind.

Faramir’s fingers withdrew one last time, and Beregond felt his lord fumble with himself for a moment – and then the younger man’s entrance was introduced to a far more taxing intrusion. He gasped, but the cock’s head had already slipped into him, and quite without difficulty.

But just as the younger man’s eyes widened in realisation of what was happening, Faramir abruptly withdrew.

“Yes, you are ready,” he said in a satisfied and almost business-like manner. “Now, I’d like you to turn over,” and he raised himself up to give Beregond space for the maneuver.

Beregond obediently flipped onto his front – and immediately came to feel intoxicatingly vulnerable underneath the captain, practically defenseless, what with his backside perfectly accessible in this arrangement, while his general freedom of movement was rather limited. It was so liberating, so… relieving to be like this. He was used to ever being the strong one, the one on top and in control. He had been taught to take pride and pleasure in being a warrior, to enjoy the sensation of security provided by thick dependable armour, the aggressive power yielded by the sharpness of his sword and arrows. And now he was willingly giving it all up, casting it aside to come uncovered and unprotected to another man, to taste the other side of life.

Perhaps it was simply desire robbing him of inhibitions, but he was entirely unembarrassed of himself. It did not seem to him that by forfeiting his dominating position he was becoming somehow less of a man – in fact, it felt quite the opposite, for offering himself up like this, fully entrusting himself to the design of another let him in turn partake of the other, who was also a man. There was not an ounce of effeminateness between the two of them, only strength and masculine energy, only similarity in form and function, so what was there to be ashamed of?

No, he was not ashamed. He was not afraid, either – not even nervous anymore. He totally wanted this.

More than that – now that his body had been unlocked and opened, he actually desperately needed it to be filled up…

And Beregond arched back and up towards Faramir, spreading his thighs and raising up his hips, yearning for the man, yearning for what was the whole purpose of their being there. Another portion of oil was applied to him, and he pressed himself back at the warm slippery hand sliding up and down between his buttocks, wondering whether his lord could properly see his intimate places in this light, whether the sight aroused the captain…

He shivered in anticipation as Faramir’s palm lay confidently onto his hip.

Whatever was going to happen afterwards, he did not care.

“If you would rather not do this after all,” Faramir said, teasing Beregond’s entrance with the blunt tip of his cock, apparently slickened also, “now would be just the moment to say so. I am sorry, but I won’t have it in me to ask you again.”

Beregond gasped, his eyes rounding. “No! Please, don’t stop. Please, my lord, take me! Fuck me!”

Faramir did not say anything to that, yet Beregond was sure he knew exactly what sort of grin curved his lord’s beautiful mouth.

And then Faramir pushed into him.

The girth, so staggering in its fullness, was a divine blessing. It hurt, too, and Beregond liked that also, for the pain was more than bearable, and it made everything more real, so that it did not feel entirely like a dream. It was not the sort of pain he would wish to draw away from – soon it was no more than a hot discomfort, really. And how could such immense presence be entirely comfortable, anyway?

The way the younger man’s now once again fully erect cock was rubbing against the bed, dragged back and forth by Faramir’s rocking movements, was also faintly disturbing. It had been oiled, but still, the linens were far coarser than what it was accustomed to coming in contact with. But it did not occur to Beregond to reach underneath himself to take it in hand and thus protect the sensitive skin – no, everything was as it ought to be, including the spicy hint of roughness.

He knew Faramir must be in great need, having been hard without break all this time, yet the captain was still patient with him, gripping him hard on the hips as he raised himself up above Beregond, but going slowly and steadily – and the knowledge that it was for his sake that the lord was withholding himself was infinitely reassuring to Beregond. So he relaxed and did not even strain against the thickness as it gradually delved deeper and deeper into him, going just a little further in with each onward movement of the Ranger’s hips.

At some point it began to hurt again, his entrance having been worked on, but his innards still unused to such treatment. Again he felt the need to breathe slowly and thoroughly, and it seemed to him that his whole body was switching to, slipping into some special mode – a mode that had little need of his reason, thus making his mind melt and muddle, practically robbing him of conscious awareness of himself. But in return it presented him with an extraordinary sentience of his lover’s body: even without seeing him, Beregond knew exactly how Faramir’s shoulders moved, knew just how the muscles in his arms flexed as he supported the weight of his upper body on his hands, how his back and thighs strained with measured effort as he worked himself into the younger man’s body, how his knees sank into the mattress. Even how he tossed his head to accompany the gasp escaping his lips as Beregond’s tightness enveloped yet another inch of his noble length…

Beregond sensed it with his flesh, with the very core of his being, and it seemed to him that he was more with Faramir than with himself.

At last he felt the captain’s hips come in contact with his spread buttocks, and then push some more, reaching even deeper, Faramir’s full sack pressing against his exposed perineum. Beregond smiled disorientedly – so he had sheathed all of his lord…

“Well?” Faramir asked hoarsely, a note of smugness in his strained voice. “Does the captain have enough for you, my good guard?”

“Ahh… Oh yes…” Beregond breathed out in reply, eyes half-closed, his vision completely obscured.

“Or perhaps…” Faramir mused aloud, drawing back a little, and then again burying himself to the limit, “you would rather… I had put… my tongue into you? I could… make you scream… that way… Done it before… I’d have you know.”

Beregond jolted beneath him at the suggestion, and groaned uncontrollably, the image flashing through his inner vision like lightning.

“Nay, m’lord. You’re… loving me… perfectly…” he managed to mumble, effortfully fishing the words out of the verbal part of his memory. Talking was so complicated…

“You’re sure?” The teasing question was accompanied by another slow thorough thrust.

“Please… never stop…” Beregond murmured deliriously, kneading and twisting the pillow in time with the movement of Faramir’s hips.

“Oh, don’t you worry about that,” Faramir muttered in a single breath, and lowered himself full on top of Beregond, gripping him on the shoulders for support, resting his weight on the guard’s body and pressing him hard into the mattress. “But don’t say I hadn’t warned you,” he added only half-playfully right into Beregond’s ear, the heir’s hips already picking up speed.

Faramir had been, in fact, very accurate with his choice of words earlier in the evening. He had promised to fuck Beregond hard – and that was exactly what was happening.

The bed was swaying and creaking madly, Faramir’s breath rapid and harsh on Beregond’s cheek, Beregond himself panting, not entirely sure who he was or where he was…

And then, as Faramir changed the angle a little, his cock crushed into the center of Beregond’s pleasure, and ecstasy rammed through the younger man, and he moaned at the top of his lungs. Had he been able to hear himself from aside, the guard would have, no doubt, been bemused to no end by his own ability to produce such sounds.

“Ah, that hit the mark, didn’t it?” Faramir growled into his ear, repeating the thrust with perfect precision.

“Ah, yes!!” Beregond shouted, bolting violently underneath him.

After that, he could not stop moaning, practically suffocating from voicing his own pleasure. His body was on fire, melting, liquefying, being beaten on the inside with such merciless, delightful power…

Faramir was groaning hoarsely in time with his thrusts, his grip on Beregond’s shoulders so fast, there were likely to be bruises afterwards. But Beregond was hardly aware of the discomfort – and neither was there was any real pain inside him. A thick dull ache, yes, but it was not of an alarming or even disturbing kind – in fact, it felt welcome, for it was accompanied by that radiant sensation of unraveling bliss…

Faramir nuzzled the back of his neck, rubbing his face into Beregond’s tousled tresses, apparently trying to get to the man’s skin. Then he gave up on it and, momentarily releasing the hold of one hand on the younger man’s upper arm, in a swift rough caress brushed his hair aside. He then licked hotly at the guard’s straining neck, making the man gasp amid his moans.

And then it was time for yet another novelty in Beregond’s intimate life, for Faramir turned his face slightly to the side – and suddenly bit the younger man forcefully on the curve of the neck. Entirely involuntarily, Beregond bucked underneath him, and let out a loud desperate cry – he had never felt such sharp, searing pleasure in all of his life. The pain had hardly registered with him as his lord’s teeth gripped his flesh – he was aware only of the madly arousing effect it had on him, cuttingly intensifying all his sensations. And with the next thrust Faramir nailed into him, Beregond cried out again, this time from the bliss unfolding in his loins. He spent generously onto the crumpled sheets beneath him, thrashing against Faramir’s muscular form.

If anything, Faramir only bit harder on him, as though trying to hold the man in place as the Ranger’s hips continued their labour, burying his burning length time and time again into the tight depths of Beregond’s unresisting body. This time, Beregond really felt the pain in his shoulder – only in his current state, where everything seemed to have turned upside-down and inside-out, there was nothing wrong or unpleasant about the pain, and it only heightened his ecstasy. He had never wished to hurt or be hurt in bed, and this he did not see as hurt, either – it was only a most primal and profound expression of passion, of ownership, of love.

And, much as he would have never thought it possible, in just several more thrusts on his lord’s behalf, Beregond came all over again, this second climax so much more forceful and unexpected than the first, that it was almost agonising. But at the same time he felt so inconceivably happy, so unbelievably loved. He had as though only then felt what life was like, what it felt to be alive. He screamed wildly, baring his teeth and clenching the sheets so hard his knuckles whitened. His body convulsed as though in waves, and he very acutely felt the muscles in between his legs contract, and release, and contract once more over and over again as a fresh portion of seed leaked forth from his euphoric manhood.

Apparently, Faramir felt it too. For once, the older man seemed to have lost rein over his actions, his hips planting a couple more awkward thrusts into his partner – and, burying himself to the hilt in Beregond once again, he as though gathered up for a jump, going desperately tense on top of the man, gripping the guard’s shoulders so hard as though he actually wanted to dig his fingers right into the meat of Beregond’s muscles.

And then he finally released the hold of his teeth on the man’s neck, and let out a strange, pained sound, most like a choked fearful sob, and, as his climax overpowered him – he screamed.

“Oh, Boooromiiir!!!”

Had this wailing cry of such utter, bottomless woe, despair and longing seemed like anything out of the ordinary to Beregond?

Paradoxically, no. Not in the slightest. Still in the throes of his pleasure, he was in that borderline state of being where everything, strangely, makes perfect sense. Like in a dream, where one person can change into another, the deceased walk among the living and the most unconnected events follow logically together – and none of it feels in the least out of place to the dreamer.

Beregond still lay beneath the captain, now almost motionless as his body grew mellow and peaceful from the deep carnal heat that had just burned through it, merely receiving Faramir’s slowing residual thrusts. The younger man had not gasped, had not jolted, had not tried to wrench himself away when he heard the lord’s exclamation – again, he had seen absolutely no reason to.

It was not that he had misunderstood – if anything, his state rendered him strangely, acutely perceptive. People did, of course, cry out all sorts of odd things in the peak of their passion. His own wife, for instance, was especially fond of whispering ‘oh, mother’, when things were going especially well. But then again, his wife said ‘oh, mother’ in response to pretty much anything: a dish falling to the floor and breaking, Bergil coming home with a nosebleed, the neighbours’ cook falling pregnant yet again. Beregond was sure Lord Faramir did not go calling his noble brother’s name on any of similar occasions.

No, he had understood it all too well.

And he was not even surprised at all. Of course it was like this – how could have it been otherwise, really, if one came to think of it?

But then Faramir went still inside him, and finally drew out, breaking the short-lived physical bond between them to slump down heavily to the side of him – and all at once Beregond’s delirium dissolved, and his senses came back.

The man’s eyes flew open, breath dying in his chest. It was staggering – the immensity of his lord’s loss, the depth and rawness of his grief. Beregond had just shared his body with this man, and thus the degree of empathy the guard had for the captain was so high, that it felt to the younger man as though a brick wall had just collapsed onto him, crushing all of his bones. How was it possible to live with such pain…?

Had he come to learn this truth about the Steward’s sons in any other circumstances, had he heard of it when even-tempered and level-headed – who knows, perhaps he would have recoiled, appalled, shaking his head desperately: no, it cannot be, it is sick, horrible! Yet the timing of the revelation had been such that he felt no shock at the nature of such love. It filled him only with woe and piercing, wrenching sadness.

And then he finally understood everything. His lord’s sudden interest amid all the hopeless grimness of their days, the determination with which he carried it all through – and then the odd intimate conduct. The weariness, the irony, the detachment, the derisiveness, the vulgarity, the shamelessness. Nothing but pain, emptiness and vulnerability stood behind it all. And loneliness, of course – such loneliness… Nothing but a perfectly understandable human necessity to find at least a short reprieve from all of one’s suffering.

And Beregond knew also that it was not in his power to provide such reprieve – it was not in anybody’s power, for the one who alone could have done so was gone. Captain Faramir had wanted just one single moment of peace – and even in that moment he had been unable to forget.

Was this not a nightmare come to life: even in the moment of uttermost intimacy to be starkly, inescapably alone?

Yet it was obvious, too, that Lord Faramir, if only fate was merciful to give him the time, would keep seeking this unreachable peace, for what else could he do?

He would win people over, people who were nobody to him, only the better if it required some effort on his behalf – wishing to cure his loneliness, to share the burden of his pain, to cling to someone – only to get himself hurt and frustrated again. And as though Beregond saw it all written out on the pages of a book of destiny, it was clear as day to him that it was going to be like this, and could not be avoided.

No, of course, none of this had been about Beregond. Anyone else could have chanced to be in his place. Yet he felt no bitterness at this thought – it was not his fault things had happened this way, nor was it Captain Faramir’s. Captain Faramir had no use for Beregond’s love – not because there was anything wrong with him, or with Beregond – but simply because he had no use for anyone’s love, because his own love now lay in cold ashes, with no chance of resurrection.

And at this notion Beregond’s heart suddenly flooded with boundless rapturous compassion, and he wanted so desperately to show in some grand and beautiful way that he understood, that he cared, that he was and always would be loyal to his lord. You cannot take my love – but take my devotion, my respect, my sympathy, my utter acceptance of you. Nothing you could do could ever make me turn away from you. I’d do anything, whatever, I don’t care. I would never abandon you.

Following this urge, Beregond finally raised himself up, not even noticing the ache and soreness in his lower body, and turned to his resting lord – not yet knowing what exactly he was going to say, yet fully intending to express it all somehow.

The gaze he was met with made him feel like he had just slammed himself face-first against a wall of ice-cold rock.

What would a man in Faramir’s place be feeling?

There could have been a wide array of possible reactions, ranging from apprehension, fear, anger and spite on the one end, through defiance, bitterness and weariness to regret, shame and even hope on the other.

Yet not one of these emotions could Beregond read in the heir’s face. He could read there nothing at all. As though carven of marble, it was hard and impenetrable – it was closed to him, shut and locked up. He had already learnt too much – nothing more would be allowed to him.

And in that most unlikely moment Faramir seemed a true lord to Beregond: high, noble and powerful, and coldly unreachable in his majesty. Suddenly he came to very closely resemble his older brother, only appearing even more lordly, almost royal. He was sitting in a careless uncomfortable position on a messed-up bed in a stranger’s house, leaning his bare back against the cool white-washed wall of the alcove. His long raven hair was in somewhat of a disarray, there was sweat on his brow, and his manhood, still flushed and rather swollen, albeit resting limply over his hip, was glistening with oil and his own seed. Yet the expression in his face rendered all that absolutely irrelevant, and Beregond was instantly filled with humbleness, and lowered his face, knowing he could never say any of the things he felt so acutely.

He saw with perfect clarity that he could not try to express any of his sentiments in some nonverbal way either – instinctively he felt he no longer had permission to touch Lord Faramir, to embrace or kiss him. The span given for such liberties had expired – they were but a lord and a guard again.

The fairy-tale was over. The diamond in the dust… Perhaps he ought to have known. Jewels never lie in the road just like that, for no good reason – and messing with them hardly ever leads to the augmentation of general happiness in the world. And this particular jewel, as Beregond had just learnt, already belonged to somebody…

But something had to be done, it was inadmissible to just remain as they were, letting that unintentional exclamation hover over them. He could feel dislike and distrust brewing in the room, the air now almost brittle with tension and cold.

Beregond looked up at his lord again and opened his mouth to speak, to break the silence somehow. At once he saw the tendons in Faramir’s neck and jaws flex taut, his nostrils flaring – and the words died on the younger man’s tongue.

Faramir’s glare told him clearly enough to keep it shut. I may have just bedded you, Guard, but that does not go to imply you get admission to the private corners of my heart. You have no right to pass judgement on me, to express your opinions on my intimate life. Whom I love is none of your business. My love is precious to me, and don’t you dare either trample it down with scorn, or soil it with condescension.

And then Beregond realised that he was actually the first person to have ever been let on to the lords’ secret.

No one had ever accepted this love and taken it as normal and natural – and Lord Faramir did not fathom that someone ever could. Whatever Beregond could say, it would not get across, it simply would not, especially in a moment of such painful, exposed vulnerability.

Ironically, the kindest thing he could do would be to not acknowledge its existence at all.

Lowering his eyes, Beregond put a modest smile onto his lips. “You called my name, your lordship,” he forced his mouth to say.

Faramir’s gaze grew detached, and he grinned grimly. “Yes, I called your name: I like you,” he replied with hardly concealed sarcasm.

His tone bit harshly, making Beregond suddenly feel very cold and very naked – but the shadow had lifted, and the gathering clouds dissolved.

Another long moment passed, then the bed sprang quietly as Faramir got up. He walked to the table and, dipping the small washcloth in the basin, rubbed himself down with icy water.

Beregond allowed himself to remain where he was for a while. There was only one basin in any case, and he would do his washing when he saw the lord off. He would heat up the water and do everything properly, with soap and towels, too, and afterwards he would eat – after all, he was, at least in part, at home in this place. And then it hit him how fortunate he truly was. He had a family, his beloved son and wife, to come home to that very evening. He was infinitely, blessedly rich… Of course, they could all yet lose each other in the coming war, but for the present he had them. And who did Lord Faramir have to come home to…?

When the captain was done and began to dress, Beregond went to do likewise. They did not speak, and the guard kept his eyes on his hands. He was putting on only his clothes, leaving the armour for later – the washing aside, once he saw the captain off he would have to go back inside to put the house in order after their visit.

Suddenly Faramir’s nimble fingers touched him lightly and gently on the back of the neck. Beregond froze, unsure what it was all about – and Faramir moved his hair aside, then pulled at the collar of his shirt, exposing the curve of his neck and part of the shoulder.

“I have left a mark on you,” the Ranger said thoughtfully after a moment. “It must be a bad one, I can see it even in this light,” he sighed wearily. “You had better take care to keep it covered in the coming days – ’tis a strange spot for a proper man to get bitten on,” he added, this time without his usual irony, even though the words clearly called for it.

“Yes, thank you, my lord,” Beregond replied quietly, giving a small nod. And in that moment he saw the matter in a new light. Faramir had bitten him not so much out of lust, but rather for fear of saying what ought not to be said, and thus, above all, simply trying to keep his mouth shut…

“Thank you?” Faramir reiterated with a mirthless laugh-snort. “Good Valar, man, ‘thank you’ for what?”

For a moment Beregond was afraid the captain may be losing it. A bout of uncontrollable hysterical laughter at the absurdity of their whole encounter was the last thing either of them needed right then.

Nevertheless, the guard turned around and, looking the lord seriously in the eyes, said earnestly, “For everything.”

Faramir stared at him expressionlessly, and Beregond wondered if perhaps he had crossed the line, if he had allowed himself too much…

But a sad gentle smile appeared on Faramir’s lips – and even more so in his eyes. The sort of smile that the captain whom Beregond had thought he knew would have smiled.

“You are a kind man, Beregond,” the lord said with warm weary sadness and, taking Beregond’s face in his hands, leant in to him.

A small firm kiss was planted on the guard’s brow.

“And it is I who should be saying thank you. May fate have mercy on you,” Faramir whispered before drawing away and letting him go.

Beregond’s heart contracted painfully. Only in that one moment out of the whole evening had Faramir been open to him, present and available. Not when they had spoken in the street, not through everything that had followed, not even during the lovemaking – only now. And only this chaste kiss on the forehead gave Beregond the feeling that his lord had truly touched him.

He knew then that perhaps Faramir was in truth far more like Beregond had initially imagined him, at least when the lord could be himself, with the one whom he indeed wished to be with. For him this whole meeting had likely been just as unusual and bizarre as for Beregond…

They walked downstairs silently, only the silence was not caused by awkwardness, which there was little of between them. It was simply that everything had been done, and there was no need to speak.

Only in the doorway, when the fresh air of the street breathed into their weary faces, did Faramir turn.

“Thank you. For your hospitality,” he said firmly and evenly, and if some neighbour of Iorlas’ heard him, he would have no doubt taken the words at face-value, and no suspicions.

Beregond bowed politely. “’Twas a pleasure, your lordship.”

Faramir nodded, and already began to descend down the porch stairs, when Beregond – after a moment’s hesitation – added in a perfectly unaffected voice, “I am sorry for your loss, Captain.”

Faramir paused in his step, and glanced back over the shoulder.

“Yes, I am sorry also,” he replied almost expressionlessly, his face stern and unreadable, the sadness in his eyes perhaps only a trick of the dim light.

Whether he meant the official ‘I am sorry for the loss of my brother’, or the more corresponding to the truth ‘I am sorry for the loss of everything we were to each other’, or actually ‘I am sorry you have come to know of it all’, or even the more general ‘I am sorry about the way things are nowadays’ – which it was, there was no telling. The lord had closed up again, and Beregond could only go guessing at what he truly felt and thought.

And Faramir continued on his way, wherever it lay, heading down the empty street towards his unknown purpose.

At once the vespers enfolded him: the brown of his boots, the tobacco-green of his cloak, even the jet-black of his hair – all appeared a bland uniform grey in the dusk. But he seemed very real and material nonetheless, and somehow even the more forlorn for it.

His stride was collected and purposeful, and not once did he turn to look back.

Still standing on the porch, Beregond drew his long cloak closer about his shoulders, his grey eyes deeply thoughtful as he watched his beloved captain go.

I shall never know what he is truly like, what it is to be his lover.

It was cold. The young man’s belly was all confused and aching dully, and he rubbed it absentmindedly. The guard’s face was even and calm, although very pale – but that could not be noticed in the gloom. In another minute or so, when Lord Faramir’s shape would be completely consumed by the shadows, he would turn and go back inside. He would strip his brother’s bed of the damp soiled linens, and rinse out the empty glasses, and put himself in order, don his black-and-silver uniform and clasp his weapons back on.

Perhaps, at some point in the course of all this, he would squat down and weep bitterly and inconsolably. Weep at everything that was irreversibly lost, and at everything that was yet bound to be lost.

Perhaps he would – and perhaps he would not.

What did it matter? None of this was or had ever been about him.

End

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