Faramir Fiction Archive

A Return To Joy (NC-17)

Written by Sarah Elizabeth

20 December 2008 | 3404 words

Title: A Return To Joy
Author: Sarah Elizabeth
Pairing: Faramir/Beregond
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Faramir is tired of mourning, Beregond can help bring joy back to him.
Warnings: Tiny bit of angst.
Feedback: It means a lot to me. No flames please! Use the form below or email
Disclaimers: These characters are NOT mine, and I’m not making a single cent off this or any other story.

Written for the 2008 Midwinter Swap.

Request by Macalaure: I would like a fic featuring Faramir and Beregond. I find there to be some potential sexual tension here and would like to see more of that. If that is not inspiring, pair up poor Faramir with some Rohirrim (maybe Éomer) and let the plot bunnies loose. Post- Return of the King preferred. I would like R/ NC-17 not PWP and not fluff. Faramir should be angsty, but not depressingly so, more that he is still recovering from being so downtrodden and wished dead. This is not necessarily a hurt/comfort piece since I am fed up with Faramir being whimpy in slash fics. Let him take some control for once!

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Bright light streamed into the library as Faramir pulled open the heavy drapes, and he stood at the window for a long time as he tried to decide what kind of book he would want to read this morning. King Elessar had recently sent an exquisite collection of Gondorian history books that Faramir had not yet read, as he had been quite immersed in a thick volume of Elven poetry. Then again, he could also reexamine the treatises on Middle-earth geography that had been a special gift from Mithrandir. He never tired of that work, as it always called to mind the long talks he had as a young boy with the wizard, who appreciated and cultivated Faramir’s inquisitive mind.

Yes, the geography treatise would do nicely today. Faramir picked it up off the shelf, and opened it to an intricately painted map of Eriador. He slowly leafed through the pages, pausing as he found a map of the Shire.

Memories came forth unbidden of his encounters with the four Hobbits. Faramir’s thoughts drifted to the memories of courageous young Pippin, of Merry in the Houses of Healing, and of Frodo and Sam in Ithilien. The war had ended, but the memories would never leave.

His life had changed almost beyond measure since that fateful day when his father had sent Boromir to Rivendell to inquire about the finding of the One Ring. Boromir had fallen in battle; Denethor had succumbed to madness and perished in the flames of his own making (nearly taking Faramir with him); Sauron had been vanquished; the King had returned to Gondor; and Faramir had married the white lady of Rohan.

He was content with Éowyn, if not happy. Happiness was not something that came easily to Faramir. Maybe the birth of his first child would change that. Éowyn had shocked him with the news of her pregnancy several weeks earlier, and he had still not wrapped his mind around the concept that he was to be a father.

Perhaps the child would bring him the kind of joy that had always eluded him. Perhaps the birth would bring him closer to his wife. Perhaps a new family would compensate for the painful losses of his father and brother. Perhaps…

“You look lost in thought, my Lord.”

Faramir’s turned away from the window with a start and found Beregond standing under the room’s arched entryway. “Yes, I suppose I was,” he said with a faint smile.

Beregond returned the smile. “I was thinking that perchance you might want to take a ride and enjoy the weather. It is unseasonably warm today.”

“That does sound pleasant,” Faramir mused. “I could even catch some fish for a midday meal and play at being a Ranger again.”

“Then it is decided. The horses have already been equipped and are waiting in the stable. I have the lunch packed as well, in case you do not feel like hunting.”

Faramir laughed. “I see. You have been planning to whisk me away.”

A faint blush touched Beregond’s cheeks. “You have been too quiet lately. Forgive me for saying so, but I believe it would do you some good to step outside of your library for a bit.”

He was briefly surprised that anyone had noticed his melancholy, as he had taken great pains to conceal it, but then remembered that the other man had always been especially kind and attentive. Those traits, that had so endeared Beregond to him when living in Minas Tirith, had grown even more pronounced after the King had sent him to live in Emyn Arnen with Faramir and Éowyn.

When he had lived life under his father’s shadow, Faramir had always felt uncertain about the motives of those who angled to get close to him. Were they building friendships out of a genuine affinity for Faramir or were they serving their own aggrandizement? But there was no doubting Beregond’s intentions.

He was a good man, one who risked his own life to save Faramir’s, who risked a harsh punishment by disobeying the Steward’s orders simply because he knew them to be wrong. Truly, he was a man that Faramir was grateful to be able to call a friend.

“Yes, Beregond,” Faramir said at last. “I believe it would be nice to go for a ride today.”

Rain had fallen for the better part of a week on the hills of Emyn Arnen, but at last the clouds had departed. Yet it seemed to Faramir that the sun was not as comforting as it usually was; the light cast on the verdant landscape was bright but somehow cold. A part of him yearned to see the sunlight fall on the white stones of the courtyards of Minas Tirith again, but the memories of his time in that city were too painful to bear. The wounds of the past several years were still raw, and he realized that they would perhaps never truly heal.

No, he would not think of such things now. This was a day to be enjoyed.

“I think this is a good place to stop and take our rest,” he said to Beregond as their horses approached a small shaded grove on the edge of a rill. “We might find fish in the stream.”

“As you wish, my Lord.”

“Beregond,” he laughed as he dismounted, “I have told you too many times to count that you need not address me with such formality when we are alone.”

“Old habits are difficult to dispose of,” Beregond said with a sheepish smile that Faramir found most charming. “But I shall keep trying, Faramir.”

“Very good. In the meantime, I will try to cool down. The sun burns brighter than I expected!”

There were indeed fish in the stream, and Faramir’s eyes lit up with childlike delight as he caught four large trout. Beregond had a fire ready by the time Faramir was done fishing, and they prepared their lunch in a companionable silence. The packs Beregond had brought contained good, coarse bread, two apples, and a jug that they filled with water from the stream.

“How is Éowyn faring in her pregnancy?” Beregond asked as they began to eat.

“Quite well. I am certainly more nervous than she! The idea that I am to be a father is one that is altogether frightening.”

“Indeed, it can be. I recall how terrified I was upon Bergil’s birth. But it was a queer kind of terror, one that was mixed with the strongest joy I could ever hope to know.”

“Éowyn worries about her ability to be a mother,” Faramir confided. “She never cared much for the idea of children before we were wed, but I assure her that she will be wonderful. She is fiercely protective of those she loves, and this child will mean everything to her.”

“I am sure you will be wonderful as well,” Beregond said.

Faramir responded with a heavy sigh.

“My Lord, er, Faramir?”

“I fear I will be like he was, Beregond. I fear that his blood will be stronger than my will.”

Beregond moved closer to his friend but said nothing, allowing Faramir to talk at his leisure. The Steward had thanked him for saving his life, but had never said a word about the dark days of his father’s madness.

“My father was not himself at the end,” Faramir said calmly, his eyes focusing somewhere off in the distance. “But he was himself all those times he belittled me and measured me against Boromir, almost reveling in the knowledge that I would come up short against his firstborn.”

“You never came up short in my eyes,” Beregond swore. “There are many ways of taking a man’s measure.”

Faramir smiled. “You are a true friend.”

“So then you will trust me when I say that you will never turn into your father? You have too good a heart to make your child suffer the pains that you endured.”

“I will try to trust you,” Faramir said.

“This is the first I have heard you talk of your father since his death,” Beregond said delicately.

“I do not choose to discuss it. Not even with Éowyn.”

“Perhaps it would help you—”

“Nay. I am weary of mourning those whose fates cannot be changed. My father is gone, as is Boromir, and it does pain me greatly. The loss of Boromir is especially grievous to me. But I cannot bring them back, and I am trying to look forward.”

“If you will allow me to be so bold, my Lord, you do not seem happy and that is difficult for me to watch. I would have your heart be light.” Beregond looked away, afraid he had said too much.

Faramir turned a curious gaze on his friend. “Perhaps I am not happy, but I am more or less at peace. I feel shrouded not in despair but simple loneliness.”

“And your wife does not ease this loneliness?”

“I care for Éowyn deeply, and I do love her. But it is not a love born of true passion. We understand each other, we can nurse each other’s scars and that has helped us both greatly. It is all I could ask for.”

“Why is that? Perhaps in time the passion will grow.”

“There are some things I desire…” Faramir halted and closed his eyes, uncertain of whether he should continue. “Éowyn cannot give me all that I need. It is through no fault of her own.”

“What is it that you need, Faramir?” Beregond was unaware of the subtle change in his voice—it had been pitched lower and softer.

Faramir said nothing. He sat completely still for many long moments, trying to decide if the time had finally come for him to be honest with both himself and Beregond. When he finally looked at his friend, it was with a gaze that revealed everything he truly felt. There was desire in his blue eyes, but also tenderness and, above all, an invitation.

Beregond forward haltingly. In spite of what he saw in his liege’s eyes, he was still unwilling to risk anything until he was quite sure that he would not be crossing the lines of propriety. Relations between men were not uncommon in Minas Tirith, although they always occurred behind firmly closed doors—and never involved married men.

“Beregond, please,” Faramir said softly. He reached out and took Beregond’s hand in his own, his fingers brushing over the other man’s wrist.

“My Lord… Faramir… I cannot. I could not lead you to break your bonds of marriage.”

“She understands,” Faramir told him. He spoke the truth but hoped Beregond would not ask for further explanation. He was unwilling to betray Éowyn’s confidence and speak of her relationship with her serving maid. Few would understand that Faramir and his wife accepted that their marriage did not serve all of their needs, and that they had decided at the beginning to allow each other to seek comfort wherever it could be found.

Above all, Beregond knew that Faramir was a man of honor. He could not imagine Faramir lying about such a thing, and could see the truth shining in his eyes. Beregond clasped his fingers around Faramir’s hand and raised it to his lips, giving it a soft kiss.

That simple gesture was all that needed to be done to cross the line between friends and lovers. There was no going back.

The first kiss started tentatively, but soon deepened. Beregond marveled at the softness of Faramir’s lips, and he found himself addicted to the sensation of Faramir’s tongue sliding over his. There was no rush, no frenzy; the two men took their time, safe in the knowledge that their coupling would not be limited to a kiss.

Beregond let his hands roam over Faramir’s torso, biting back a groan as he felt how muscular the other man was. He suddenly got a mental flash of Faramir over him, thrusting into his body, and redoubled the intensity of the kiss. He did not pause to wonder why this felt so natural, for he would have found the answer quickly. Over the years, a simple friendship between the two men had grown out of Beregond’s service, and that friendship had slowly matured into something deeper. What else would explain the madness that had seized Beregond when he saw Faramir being taken to the pyre that nearly killed him?

It had been many years since Beregond had lain with a man, yet there was no hesitation in his actions now. He knew this was right. Faramir’s hands tangled in his hair and tilted Beregond’s head back, allowing the Steward to slowly kiss down the length of Beregond’s neck.

Beregond could hear Faramir asking him something, but it was muffled by the fact that Faramir’s lips were touching his skin. “What is it?” Beregond asked. “What do you want?”

Faramir’s blue eyes were dark with desire when he raised his head. Beregond’s breath caught at the sight of the tousled hair and flushed cheeks and kiss-swollen lips (those lips were already delectable enough, to Beregond’s mind). Faramir was the very picture of lustful need.

“I want—I need to take you,” Faramir told him, a note of earnestness creeping into his voice, as if he feared his request would be refused.

“Then take me,” Beregond said. His breeches were now uncomfortably tight and he had to use all of his might not to lose control of his senses.

“I don’t have anything to ease the way,” Faramir said. “I do not want to hurt you.”

“I have something.” Beregond retrieved a small flask of oil from his sack. It was designed to keep his saddle soft, but he knew from experience that it would do the trick.

When he turned back to Faramir, he was surprised to find the other man hurriedly disrobing.

“There is no rush,” Beregond said.

“Yes, there is. I have wanted this for a long time, and my patience is at an end.”

Beregond was shocked. “I never knew you wanted me.”

“I avoided saying anything. I feared you would only lay with me because you felt some sense of duty to do so. Or perhaps even pity, following what happened with my father.”

“Nay, I have never pitied you. I have always admired you, Faramir. And indeed, I desire you as much as you desire me.”

Faramir drew him close for another deep kiss, both men moaning when their cocks rubbed together through the material of their breeches. Beregond fell to his knees and unlaced Faramir’s breeches, freeing the hard shaft within.

“You don’t have to,” Faramir gasped.

“But I want to,” Beregond assured him.

He took his time licking up and down the impressive length of Faramir’s cock, marveling at its silken texture and how it pulsed in his mouth.

“Beregond…” Faramir said the name like it was a blessing. His hands tangled gently in Beregond’s hair.

Beregond happily continued to lave his tongue on Faramir’s member, finally taking the length deep into his mouth and sucking slowly. The sighs and moans he heard from Faramir were music to his ears. He intensified his efforts, but was stopped with a hand on his shoulder and Faramir rasping his name.

“I do not want to spend myself this way,” Faramir gasped. “I wish to be inside of you.”

Beregond shuddered and had to still his nerves lest he spilled his seed in his breeches. That would be an unpleasant end to the afternoon.

He shed his clothes and lay down on the cloak Faramir had spread over the emerald grass. Faramir was coating his fingers with the oil and knelt over Beregond, brushing the tip of a finger against his puckered opening. He looked up at Beregond with a questioning look in his eyes, but the other man just gave him a reassuring smile. Faramir smiled, too, and pushed a finger in ever-so-slowly.

Faramir watched intently as Beregond gasped and breathed deeply at the intrusion, forcing his muscled body to relax. A second finger slid in, then a third, and at last Faramir was able to stretch Beregond and prepare him for the next step.

The fingers slid out and Faramir took his time slicking oil over his erect member, wanting to ensure the breach of Beregond’s body would be pleasurable.

“Please, Faramir,” Beregond said at last. “Please.”

Faramir was nearly undone by the raw need in Beregond’s voice. He kissed the other man, curling their tongues together as he straddled Beregond’s hips. The head of his cock pushed at Beregond’s opening and entered him, breaching the thick ring of muscle. Faramir hesitated but Beregond reached up and grabbed his hips.

“You must not stop,” he pleaded.

Faramir nodded and bit his lip as he slid into the velvety heat of Beregond’s body. His throbbing shaft was gripped by impossible tightness and his hips stuttered, driving his cock all the way in with one hard thrust.

Beregond screamed, but Faramir knew it was a scream born of pure pleasure. Encouraged, Faramir began to piston into him with long thrusts, trying to perfect the angle so that he would hit that special nub inside every man. He knew he had hit his mark when Beregond twisted under him and cried out Faramir’s name in a hoarse voice that sent sparks of desire coursing through the Steward’s veins.

“Fill me, please Faramir…” Beregond arched to meet Faramir’s thrusts, as if he was trying to draw him even further into his body. “I need to feel you giving of yourself to me…”

All Faramir could offer in reply was a ragged moan. He was nearing the breaking point and could not hold back any longer. “Beregond!” he cried, his voice echoing through the shade of the trees and over the cool water of the stream. “Beregond!”

Beregond gasped and shuddered when he felt Faramir’s seed pouring into him, filling him, marking him. It had never felt this way with any other man. This felt so right.

Both men groaned in disappointment when Faramir removed himself, but they quickly came together again for a lengthy kiss.

“I should have spoken of my need for you sooner,” Faramir said ruefully.

“You were not ready,” Beregond observed. “There was too much turmoil and too much pain.”

“But I am ready now. I would not have this be the last time we lie together.”

“And you are certain that Éowyn understands?”

“I give you my word,” Faramir told him. “I would not hurt her any more than I would hurt you.”

“Nor would I do you any harm,” Beregond swore.

“I cannot imagine that you would,” Faramir said with a smile. “All you have ever done has been to advance my happiness. And for that, I am forever grateful.”

“And I am grateful, too.”

“Grateful to me? What for?” Faramir asked.

Beregond took his hand and held it tight. “I am grateful for your strength, your kindness, and your wisdom. But most of all, I am grateful that you have smiled again.”

Indeed, Beregond’s words made Faramir beam with happiness. “I am grateful for that, too. And with you by my side, I believe that I will be smiling much more in the days to come.”

END

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