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Until the End (NC-17) Print

Written by Geale

23 March 2011 | 1568 words

Summary: There are some battles we are not meant to win…
Pairing: Faramir & Elladan
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Lots of angst, slash and a bit of blood. As for the sex, consensual but complicated, as I like to call it! AU-ish
Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: My muses have been enjoying a holiday somewhere far, far away for the longest time. I’m not sure we should regard this as their return, however. More like a postcard. But nevertheless, I am so grateful!

I’ve never quite mastered that art of knowing when to label a story AU when it involves characters who are fictional to begin with, but I suppose this one might belong to that category. Faramir and Osgiliath never happened but Denethor did set himself on fire. The rest of the details are a bit unclear ;)

Finally, Nae, gerich naergon nín is Sindarin for ‘Alas, you have my expression of deep regret’.

Until the End

He cannot close his eyes.

Faramir of Gondor, brother of the late Boromir, son of the late Steward, loses his balance as his feet slide apart. Slipping, sliding in the mud and the blood that covers the ground, fear stabs him. He is the youngest child, never meant to be more than a simple Captain. His thoughts are tumbling over themselves: survival, breath, one more step, one more thrust of his blade… One more thrust…

Ah, but he is challenged! Orcs and Uruks, the Wild Men of the south; beasts and monsters well in over the Pelennor. There are the Oliphaunts, and they roar like Morgoth himself, lost in the folds of history and yet painfully present. Aye, there is pain like Faramir has never known before.

He staggers backwards, bile rising in his throat as he stumbles over a body sprawled in the mud. Before the Oliphaunt Faramir stands shaking. The rhythmic beating of the drums, the pounding, the heavy heartbeat of the land writhing in agony beneath him. How to slay? How to live?

He crumbles in the face of this assault. There is nothing to hold on to. The reek from Orodruin fills the field. The ire… the ire of the Eye. Faramir is one with the land, with the dark sky that lowers itself over the last hope of the free souls of Middle-earth. No warning will his chapped lips form, but a scream so horrid it rips apart his throat and tear his lungs to shreds echoes in the void.


He thrashes on the ground to the wild pounding upon deerskin. The blood of the fallen soaks his shirt and wets his skin. He aches. Aches so much for forgiveness and redemption. Something wraps around him, ties him down. He fights all the way to the end, to the slaughter that will come. He sees the hand that reaches for him, oddly pale and slender in this distorted version of his last moments in Arda.

He wants to scream again but cannot. Cold air rushes over him. Then time runs out.


He is pushed into the ground, deeper and deeper, until the mud has claimed all of him. He twists his head to the side but there is no air left for him to breathe. The burning pain twines around his legs and spreads through his bones. He wants the Pelennor to fall away underneath him so that he will see no more.

The calloused hand fights for dominance over his terror. It roughly caresses his hip and thigh. The drumming is so loud now that Faramir’s whimpers are completely lost in it. He tries to move, to raise himself up, but is pushed back down, sinking downwards until he lies at the very roots of his bloodline, now doomed to end with him. But in the core of the earth something else wakens, and he knows such longing and hunger that his vision darkens until he sees only the pools and puddles of blood, and can feel only the scorching fire that laps at him.


He knows two things then: there is relief as his body is breached, and there is horror as hideous creatures sweep in from the east, riding on the stench flooding out of Mordor and blocking out the eastern sky. He shrinks from them even as he is pinned to the ground. He means to look away but their piercing eyes and their inhuman shrieks of delight at the sight of easy prey are like magnets, drawing his gaze until he has looked upon them long enough to know what they are.


The hand he has lost track of suddenly grabs hold of him and rolls him partially on to his side. Now he hears the hisses of arrows slicing through the air and the meeting of steel on steel. He cannot move his legs but he bucks into the hand that cups his aching length. It hurts when he is stroked but he has always been marked for a painful end. He tastes blood on his own tongue as the hard cock that is shoved into him time and time again forces him into a new darkness. The white stone of Minas Tirith fades before his eyes and his attempts to hold on to it are futile. Wave after wave of mind-numbing heat crashes through him and the fingers wrapped firmly around his pounding flesh coax him to choke on a raspy groan.

Then comes the rain. The world grows blissfully still and there is silence. It is as though softness and gentleness are remembered again, if only for a second. In this precious moment, Faramir thinks that once, in a time long lost, he knew love.

Tricked by this illusion, his body gives in just as the Nazgûl bear down upon the City; and no sun will rise again.

“Brother, I must…”

“No. I heard everything.”

Elladan drops his gaze to the withered grass, unable to look Aragorn in the eye. His breeches he laced up hastily and he is soiled. He swallows hard.

“We must consider this carefully, and see what we can make of it,” says Aragorn in that flat voice Elladan has come to loathe.

“Have you grown so coldhearted,” cries Elladan, his voice shaking now, “that you think only of the tactics of war?” He gestures, and not without shame, at the slim figure now asleep under a couple of blankets not ten feet away.

Aragorn’s handsome face is drawn. He is weary, Elladan knows that. They all are. But no one bears the burden of Faramir.

It is a while before Aragorn speaks. His eyes shone last, Elladan thinks, when he looked upon their sister in Imladris. Before the Fellowship set out, when there was still time.

Eventually, Aragorn sighs and his shoulders drop. “Nay, brother, think not that I am so cruel. But now we know what the enemy is planning and this is information we must make use of if we can…” He takes a step closer and it is impossible in this moment to think that this man was once a carefree child, playing in the sunlight flooding the blessed Valley.

“I shall go to the others,” he continues. “Stay here, where you are most needed.”

His hand on Elladan’s shoulder is heavy. Together, they look upon Faramir’s still form. Elladan feels empty and he is not sure that he has a right to feel anything else.

“Your tears soothe him…” says Aragorn softly.

“He does not know me…”

“Not while he dreams.”

Elladan shakes his head. “They are not dreams, Aragorn. They are the cruelest of visions; they tear his soul apart.”

“You heal him.”

“His wounds run deep and this you know, too.” He has no patience for kindness this night. “Tell me honestly, is there hope for him?”

He knows that he is beseeching his brother who knows more of Men than he does, but there are truths that he does not want Aragorn to acknowledge, even when asked.

Aragorn’s eyes overflow with pity. He opens his mouth but hesitates. Then he speaks, slowly and quietly. “I shall seek out the others. Dawn is still far away.” He pulls his cloak tighter around himself. “Nae, gerich naergon nín…”

He turns from Elladan and makes for the cluster of tents behind the trees. The darkness is challenged only by the glow of embers, the last remnants of a few cooking-fires, but the men are settling in for the night.

Faramir has curled up on his bedroll. The sweat has dried on his brow and he is breathing evenly once more. Elladan sinks down beside him.

More and more often now, Faramir strays into lands and times beyond Elladan’s reach. When morning comes, the evidence of Faramir’s release, and his own, will be plain for them both to see, but Faramir will not curse him for the brutal way in which he was taken. There is another, greater, pain than that of muscles and flesh forming just ahead of them, and if this is the only way to hold on to Faramir…

He lifts aside the blankets and curls around the young man. Elladan laced up his breeches, too, while Aragorn waited in the shadows.

When morning comes, Elladan will again lose his courage. He buries his face in Faramir’s damp curls and closes his eyes.

“I love you.”

But Faramir hears him not.


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4 Comment(s)

Okay, so I think now it’s my turn for a gigantic squee, don’t you think? Or perhaps just a general mashing of the keyboard because (uhbrdfjgrfmbfm) I loved this! :D (And I hope you love essays because here we go!)

Where on earth do I begin? Well, first of all you know how I’ve missed your LotR stories dearly so I’m so glad your muse has decided to take a trip to Middle-earth for a little while (though that is of course not to say I’ve not been enjoying your other writings!) I’ve always loved your Faramir and how, in some degree or other, there’s always something very interesting going on with him emotionally, whether explicitly attributed to inherited far-seeing abilities (like in Mist) or here, where he is plagued by visions that you’ve written so poetically and yet so viscerally as well. I said before once that your writing has this supernatural style to it that’s so inspiring and enjoyable to read. Especially here, where you’re juxtaposing Faramir’s visions with the physical act, the ethereal way you describe what he sees is perfect; the way the pain and the fear all mix together into one big emotional tumult that engages the reader from the get-go :)

I liked your grim, war-burdened Aragorn and how, through Elladan, we see, so briefly, how much he has changed, and even though it is necessary for him to be hard but there is still kindness there. And what a heart-rending ending, though of course the whole story is so emotionally charged. I’ve never really read any stories with Elladan (or Elrohir, for that matter) in them so I came to this with fresh eyes and I liked how his despair and his lack of courage are shown so simply. Less is more, I always think, and so much is gotten across here in regards to his feelings and fears for Faramir. It’s almost a case of what is not said adding to that sense of uncertainty. (Literally as well, he can only say ‘I love you’ when Faramir cannot hear him.)

A couple of lines that I loved;

“He cannot close his eyes.” – I just, I don’t know. Such a simple statement and yet an almost chilling way to open the story. That line alone set my mind working on possible story ideas of my own. All at once it’s desolate, bleak,; making me think of the fear of nightmares, of war, fear of loss, or of love, or the loss of love. It really just struck me and set me thinking of so many meanings and ideas before I’d even read the first paragraph. So thank you for that! (I’m going to end up writing something now based on that one line, aaaah)

“…sinking downwards until he lies at the very roots of his bloodline…” I just thought this was so poetic. No matter the subject matter of your writing it’s always so beautiful, the metaphors and descriptions are always so carefully constructed and evoke such strong imagery, to me at least. (So, yeah, not jealous or anything. Nope.)

Oh, how I love your angst! And unlike me you’re not afraid to have a less than happy ending, though here there is still small hope, I like to think.

Beautiful as always, thank you for sharing!! :)

Eora    Thursday 24 March 2011, 21:58    #

I may be a bit biased (or odd eccentric), but I’ve always thought that the scene where Aragorn heals Faramir is the most romantic, or even erotic of the whole trilogy (as far as one could ever say Tolkien’s work is erotic…) — I love how you’ve taken that concept and adapted it (and dare I say, improved on it). The dreaminess of the piece is just lovely. Thank you very much for sharing it with us!

Iris    Saturday 26 March 2011, 16:19    #

This was very… powerful. I couldn’t fully understand what was going on, what is reality and what is… I don’t know, nightmares, visions, what? Whether Faramir gets raped on the battlefield, or he is dying in fever, or suffering from a morgul wound or what. But that is only right, I guess, for I suppose Faramir himself could not quite understand everything either. I can only wonder what has happened to him, why he is said to bear a burden like no other, why, even if he awakens in the morning, Aragorn acts like he is done for. Perhaps it is the Nazgul, maybe something else. In fact, not knowing only adds it eerieness and hopelessness.

Your Elladan is… hm, more alive, I’d say, than in actual canon. I always felt he (along with his brother) was sort of undershown, if you know what I mean. I love the notion of dilemma and confusion you give him, it seems quite natural for one with his descent and role in history. I mean, we’d never learned his feleings about his father’s departure or his sister’s fate, or much of anything else. It’s refreshing to get a glance into him, and very sad to think that he has fallen in love with his doomed patient while trying to help him…

December    Tuesday 31 May 2011, 11:19    #

Oh, somehow I completely forgot to answer your reviews! Please accept my apologies for a really late response.

Eora, haha! I definitely don’t mind essays!
Now, I sort of have a thing for mixing angsty sex with visions and dreams. (If you want to try another one, check out ‘those who see and burn’, which I wrote a couple of years ago.) I don’t really know what makes it work so well, but then I haven’t given it much thought either ;) I just like it.
I liked your grim, war-burdened Aragorn and how, through Elladan, we see, so briefly, how much he has changed, and even though it is necessary for him to be hard… Haha! I read this the completely wrong way at first, thinking ‘Oh, but wasn’t Elladan the hard one…?’ Me and my dirty mind! ;D
I actually enjoyed writing a grim Aragorn for once. He’s always so… in love in my stories. Or depressed. Anyway, it was a nice change.
And as always you spoil me with praise – thank you! Someday very soon I won’t be able to handle any negative remarks, I hope you understand that. And that it will be your fault.
As for the poetic stuff, it just comes to me naturally, you know ;) (—polishes her humility—) I’m glad it works, though. You’ll have to tell me someday if I go overboard with it.
Oh, angst! I worship thee.
Lots of love!

Iris, ignore my above comment to Eora please, and let me say I am humbled by your words. Now, perhaps I never considered the healing scene erotic (yes, just a bit odd ;)) but to hear that you think I improved on the concept, makes me really happy. Thank you.

December, I will leave it up to you to interpret this story and I will give no ‘correct’ answers apart from saying that Faramir’s famous far-sightedness definitely comes into play here. As you pointed out, however, he is so lost at this point that even he does not know what is reality and what is not.
I completely agree about the twins. Actually, I’d say that quite a few of Tolkiens characters were rather underdeveloped, even some of the main ones. I’m glad you like my Elladan. And as we know, pain is not unheard of among the elves.

Geale    Thursday 16 June 2011, 23:25    #

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