Faramir Fiction Archive

Blood: Creation (NC-17)

Written by Geale

29 December 2009 | 5860 words

Title: Blood: Creation
Author: Geale
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Faramir
Warnings: Blood, explicit slash, angst, violence, minor and major character death. AU.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to J.R.R. Tolkien.,A/N: This is for everyone who gave ‘Blood’ a chance and let me know they liked it.

Vampire fic! The prequel to ‘Blood’, but written afterwards. I think, though, that they can be read in any order. In Ephel Dúath Faramir meets his fate.

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The barren slopes of Ephel Dúath loom before them. The grass is withered and brown and only low, ominous hisses rises from the Morguldúin. The late autumn sun rides low in the western sky and her reddish hues traces the curves and crevices of Mount Mindolluin. She lent no warmth during the day and will not do so now either.

The horses are uneasy – of course they are. And yet the company is small… Or perhaps that is why. Their fear fingers the cold, colourless air and no wind disturbs it. It is so easy to smell, to detect, and one would be a fool not to notice. Just like one need only take one look at the riders that are reluctantly approaching the mountains to see how bright their eyes are, and how firmly their jaws are set – in a stubborn refusal to betray their apprehension.

Aragorn tells himself he does not know why he is leading them here. He toys with his own mind and moral, lets them sink low into the earth beneath his horse’s hooves, trying to ignore his own conscience. He tells himself he knows not why, but he does… Yes, he knows so well.

Even Daënon the proud is frightened. He holds his chin high and his blond, braided hair flows down his back as it always does, but he wishes he were not here. It is Legolas’ order that he is dutifully obeying but his mind is filled with dreams of Ithilien. They grow more desperate by the minute. This too, Aragorn can smell. His senses are sharp, they have always been – he tells himself.

A first chill wind seeps out from the mountains and Aragorn shivers. He is always cold of late, always his skin prickle and not only is this due to the weather. He is cold inside too. Yes, truly the chill seems to come from within. He pulls his cloak closer around him but it makes no difference. And the company rides on.

Minas Morgul… Let that name roll off your tongue and you shall find the very air around you shift.

Minas Morgul…

What dwells there no one can say, but two things Aragorn know: it is dark, and he yearns for it.

His skin tingles as his blood crawls forth in his veins. A shadow fell upon him here not long ago, and he desires for it to touch him once more. His lie to his riders proved effective, and yet it was not a lie for any such darkness must be destroyed. But the blade that harshly cut into him that night scarred him more deeply than he could have imagined, and of this they know nothing.

For every lie there is a price to pay and Aragorn is paying in this very moment. Still with fervour he wishes that one in this company would have stayed behind. Ever faithful Faramir would not have it so. He demanded to be included, said he could no longer bear to stare at the walls of the Tower, said the pain was too great – and that he would go mad were he not to join the King.

Aragorn steals a quick glance at him now. Faramir cares not where he is riding. All colour was drained from his face that night Éowyn, for innumerable hours tormented by labour pains, gave up her breath and was thus stolen from him. And she took the child with her into the darkened lands. Since then, five moons ago, Faramir has barely eaten or slept, and his dulled eyes are encircled by shadows – a pitiable attempt to force his own life from his body. Aragorn has made sure he is kept alive, ordering him to continue as Steward for the sake of Gondor but his private motives he hides well.

His gaze return to Faramir and he realises he may watch as much as he likes for the young man is not likely to notice. He runs his eyes over the slim frame, the exhausted face still so beautiful and tempting, and he thinks he can still sense life in that body… In the way air flows into his lungs, and in the way that his blood gives warmth to his skin. If indeed he is warm.

If he is, Aragorn wants to feel it. He wants to touch. He wants to smell the scent of that skin, he wants to uncover it – to peel away the clothing and find out if Faramir is willing. Or perhaps could be, when grief has somewhat subsided. What scares him the most is this: he is not sure that he would wait.

“My lord?” Daënon’s whisper crashes into his ponderings.

Aragorn turns slowly in his saddle. He severely dislikes having to temporarily withdraw his focus from Faramir but staring too openly would perhaps give rise to suspicion. The Elf has urged his unwilling beast closer to Aragorn’s own but though he is addressing the King, his eyes are constantly scanning the arid landscape.

“Yes?”

Daënon briefly meets his gaze. He seems unsure of what to say, looks as if he is torn between several questions. In his blue eyes there is a restless flicker.

“This is the road…to…?” he finally says, and it is somehow amusing how such an old creature should be so afraid of his surroundings. He swallows and tries once more. “This is the road you took, my lord?”

“It is.” Aragorn watches intently as his confirmation settles in Daënon’s mind. The Elf, the only one of his kind in this company, nods and exhales in a peculiar way. It is a sigh born out of both determination and, of course, fear.

He thinks that Dënon will speak no more but he is proven wrong when another question stings the cool air:

“Are you alright, sire?”

The irony…

“Yes.”

Daënon gives a curt nod and falls back into the small group of hunters. Aragorn lets go of the reins temporarily, trusting his horse to lead them when he will not, and rubs his palms together in an attempt to awaken some heat that might still live in his body somewhere. He has not eaten for hours, disgusted at the mere idea of food, though he pretended last night by the campfire. Yet he feels not weakened or tired, only cold.

Again, his eyes are drawn to Faramir’s slim form. He rides a few feet apart from the others, with a blank expression and slightly slumped shoulders. If he were to taste anything, he would run his tongue along the young man’s neck.

Perhaps he is staring too hard for suddenly Faramir stirs. He raises his chin a little and turns to look directly at Aragorn. Nothing has affected the King so, and in such a long time, than to see the stark pain in his blue eyes. They are devoid of everything else. Still he will not look away and neither will Faramir. They uphold this contact while Aragorn greedily drinks down all that the young man is offering, be it pain or desperation, or despair or… even death. For this, Aragorn is hungry. Indeed, he is insatiable.

A chill wind seeps down from the mountains and Faramir shivers. The fine hairs on his neck rise to stand and a shudder runs down his spine; Aragorn knows this as if it were his own body that was assaulted thusly. He holds Faramir’s gaze with fierce determination but the young man flinches and looks away. His copper hair falls down to shield his face from further intrusion.

In frustration, Aragorn curses his own boldness. Faramir was never overly confident or self-assured. When Éowyn’s hand was finally placed in his underneath the branches of the White Tree, he still looked like he did not truly believe it though they had been betrothed for nearly a year. Sometimes, in his darker hours, Aragorn wonders if he consciously chose to ignore the light in Faramir’s face in those times past. If he early on simply decided that the Steward was so unhappy, his soul so fundamentally lost, that not even the bright Éowyn could dispel his shadows. In his darkest hours, Aragorn wonders if a part of him – a small but yet existent part – drew the first breath of life when he learned of her passing.

But be that as it may, in this moment he is not happy about Faramir’s presence. He should have been spared from this hunt as they know naught of what it will bring or how it will end. Whatever evil that dwells in Ephel Dúath must be destroyed and yet it is calling seductively to the one who has already tasted its poison. Aragorn picks up the forgotten reins and squares his shoulders. In any case, now there is no turning back.

They ride towards a crack in the mountain side, a jagged gap that will swallow them and throw them into darkness. But this darkness will last only for a short while for the rock will spit them out again, into the evening and there will be an open space, encircled by high mountain walls with strange marks scarring them. Aragorn thinks he can remember how his fingers traced the broken lines carved into the stone. He does recall the coldness and the dampness and he guessed then that there must be some spring somewhere above that allows a portion of its water to trickle down the mountain sides. He remembers the smell but he cannot describe it. Metallic, perhaps.

They ride thither now despite the horses’ unease. This land feeds on agitation and apprehension, and it makes Aragorn’s skin itch. Gone are the tingles from before, now he feels excitement building and though he knows it to be wrong, so very wrong, he smiles grimly as his eyes search the stone walls for the entrance. He kills the smile quickly and forces his lips to form a thin line.

“Yes, this way,” he murmurs and is surprised at the roughness of his voice. “This way,” he calls to the others a little louder. In the corner of his eye, he sees Faramir straighten in his saddle.

He pays no attention to the rest of his company as they ride through the passage one by one. There is a rising tide in his body and his blood is unnaturally hot in his veins, calling him, nay, commanding him, to continue. Urging him to proceed with this, enchanting him, luring him deeper and deeper into this darkness – to carry out this mission which he has invented for reasons that he himself cannot name. When he slips out of the dark passage, the setting sun is blocked by the mountain and gloom trails across the stony ground.

“My lord…” is all that Daënon has time to say before a whirlwind of fury is upon them and blackened forms spring out from crevices all around them.

They are torn from their saddles by hands that are not hands, and yet they can wield a sword as good as any trained soldier. Aragorn is thrown down upon the stone with a force that rips the breath from his lungs. He hears a few of his men scream and the clanging of blades tear through the evening. He scrambles to his feet, fervently gasping for air but he is assaulted again and sharp metal slashes his cloak and scrapes his shoulder. Blood immediately seeps forth and drowns the fabric in a seductively dark red. He has no time to think for the stab of a blade makes him double over as searing pain seizes him. He is given a few moments respite and his hand flies to the wound even as he collapses once more. They hit him just below his hip bone and his leg is throbbing dangerously. He presses his shaking hand against the gash in a feeble attempt to stop the flow of blood but his senses waver and nausea crashes down upon him.

What he thought was an illusionary reprieve turns out to be something entirely different. There is no more shadow attacking him and so perhaps he still stands a chance. He tries to draw breath but stumbles on it and breaks out into a violent fit of coughing. All around him there is movement, panicked neighing of the horses, and there are screams. Dark forms are whirling, spinning, coating the rock with their hunger and Aragorn’s senses are spiralling out of control. He draws another breath, tries a second time, and succeeds just as the distinctive tang of blood rises in his mouth.

Pressing his hand hard against the wound, he attempts to sit up, to focus on the battle, but his hair is sticky with sweat and it clings to his face and he needs his hands elsewhere… He is breathing now, harshly but steadily and he draws himself up a little. What he sees through wet strands of hair causes a scream to rise from his own lungs, and broken and agonised it is hurled against the mountain walls.

Faramir is swaying. The compact, black wall of rock is just behind him, offering him no escape. His eyes are shining as they follow the arc the sword traces as it swings through the air. He looks almost surprised. His own sword lies as his feet, dropped, lost and maybe forgotten. He lifts his hands as if he means to parry the stroke using them only but he can do nothing. The toothed blade cuts into his stomach and he is thrown backwards, hitting the mountain hard and he crumbles on the ground at its feet.

An arrow comes flying through the air, a long arrow on a deadly mission. Frozen in horror, Aragorn watches as it pierces the evil that has stabbed Faramir. This form too sways, uncertainly, before it, with a shrill cry, simply dissolves into nothingness. The bow of Daënon the proud shall never sing again.

The spinning comes to a sudden end. All is still as no one will breathe. Gazes, desperate and tortured are fixed on the still form of the Steward and the dark pool of blood that is forming underneath him. There is nothing but pain inside Aragorn.

When the King moves, he sets all in motion. But he cares not any longer for the others, if he ever did. He thrusts his body forward, not caring if he is walking or crawling, but he needs to get to Faramir. His bloodied hands are torn further by the stone as he forces himself to close the distance between them. He grasps at loose rocks, only to discover their deceit; his mind is tricked by the promises of the land: that if he loses only a little more blood will he get there. Maybe he is going blind for there is but darkness around him, but then Faramir’s still form appears before him and he struggles on. Scorching heat is burning in his leg but he ignores it. Finally, he is there and his hands that he no longer recognises shake the body before him as panic rises mercilessly within.

He knows they are falling around him – horses, Gondorian soldiers and shadows – but he pays them no heed. He pushes at Faramir, willing to turn him around so he can see the beloved face, but he is too weak. The loss of blood leaves room for tiny stars that glitter at the edges of his vision but he forbids himself to give in now. He tries once more, using his own screaming body as leverage and Faramir rolls onto his back. His face is pale.

It is as if this deathly beauty holds power over the night for yet again all falls quiet in the mountains. Fallen soldiers and dissolving shadows, but Aragorn sees none of this. With tears streaming down his face he desperately cradles Faramir’s head to his chest, praying to any Gods that have not yet deserted him that they must take his life and give Faramir back his own. He gives his heart, his soul and his life over and over again, but the Valar are not listening. Still he continues to pray as a chill rises in his body and it grows numb. Unused life seeps from him into the night but he is not its master. He cannot will it to enter Faramir instead.

The Steward’s blue eyes are empty when Aragorn looks into them. He would whisper all his words of love if he could speak but his breathing is growing far too ragged. Every breath slices through him with such pain that he starts to cough again, blood flowing forth from between his lips as his body is ripped apart from within. With a last breath that is no more than a sip of the night air, Aragorn presses his mouth to Faramir’s.

For how long he stays like this he cannot say; all he knows is that he is not dead yet – that life simply refuses to let go of him. He prays no longer, for the bitterness that uncompromisingly encircles his heart taunts and teases him, and says that there is no hope for the Valar abandoned him a long, long time ago. Still, he presses his lips to Faramir’s and the stickiness of his own blood seals the kiss.

Then, a tiny movement. Even is this state, somewhere between life and death, Aragorn tenses. Immobile, he waits, and it seems to him at first it was all an illusion, but then there is a convulsion and Faramir swallows. Growing frightened – for this cannot be – he tries to pull away but finds that he has no strength left. He is forced to remain with his mouth pressed to Faramir’s cold one, while he realises that Faramir is swallowing the blood that must have run down his throat. Fear explodes within his broken body but Aragorn can do nothing. Something twitches in Faramir’s chest and then Aragorn feels what he is sure no living soul has ever felt before: wrapped up in horror, he feels how a cold tongue rises against his lips and begins to lick them clean.

It is a tongue that should not be moving for its owner is no longer alive. Yet it moves against Aragorn’s soft flesh and the dead body underneath him swallows continuously as if Aragorn’s blood were still seeping into it. Whatever evil that has come to torment him now, Aragorn would willingly yield to it for this is worse than death itself. With a desperate and utterly pathetic whimper, he means to plead to the Heavens, but his gaze fixes on something else and any last appeal remains forever unspoken. Faramir blinks once, very slowly, and there is a presence in his eyes that is not wholly unfamiliar to Aragorn though it is tinged with much, much more. There is a glimmer of darkness in them, or that is what Aragorn thinks. There is a deeper knowledge that he does not share and frankly, does not know if he wishes to explore. But Faramir blinks again and gradually focuses on his surroundings.

It is as if the spell is broken, and warily Aragorn draws back, barely conscious of the fact that he is moving far, far, too smoothly for having been beaten so savagely. All he sees in Faramir’s pale face is death and yet he is alive, and he is beautiful.

Faramir draws a first, frail breath but he does not cough. Nor does any colour rise in his cheeks. His copper hair looks several shades darker or it could just be a trick of night. The night, Aragorn idly reflects, which is so dark that he should not see this change at all.

Tongue-tied, Aragorn watches and he pulls further and further away until he is sitting up by Faramir’s side. A second breath and a move of a hand. Faramir swallows again, maybe reflexively. His eyes wander over the stone walls, the nooks and the crannies and slowly, slowly, they make their way downwards and when they land on the ragged form of the King, they widen. Ever so slightly.

“Aragorn.” It is not a question.

A shiver runs down Aragorn’s spine at the distinctive lack of fear or worry – or even amazement – in Faramir’s voice. It is cool and low, perhaps a bit hoarse, but impersonal. He nods in response, a curt twitch of the head.

Faramir watches him for long moments while the silence builds up around them. If the night was cool before, it is now cold as in winter but Aragorn cannot move.

“You are alive,” he finally whispers but to him it sounds like a roar.

A strange smile ghosts across Faramir’s face but his voice is the same as before. “I know not,” he says and for the first time there is a flicker in his eyes. “I could not say.”

“You were killed in the battle.” Automatically, the words slip out of him but not until afterwards does Aragorn realise how desperately he needed to utter them.

Faramir appears to ponder this. “The battle…” A small crease appears on his forehead. “It seems so very long ago…” Unexpectedly he reaches out and drags his fingertips down Aragorn’s arm. “You are here,” he almost muses.

The heavy weight of years of longing slides onto Aragorn’s chest and settles there. If this is magic, even in its darkest form, he cannot wholly curse it for Faramir is touching him willingly. He leans into it, edging a little closer and an eerie satisfaction runs through his body as Faramir repeats the movement.

“Give in…” The soft whisper wraps itself around Aragorn and he sways when he meets Faramir’s gaze. His blue eyes seem to have acquired a lighter shade and they are shining. “Leave it behind…”

As Aragorn bends down, the meaning of Faramir’s words is lost to him for forbidden desire is rising steadily. But where he means to press a kiss to Faramir’s brow, the man beside him tilts his head upwards and catches Aragorn’s lips in a sudden kiss.

“I was so hungry,” he murmurs and Aragorn’s head is spinning.

He lets Faramir’s tongue sweep through his mouth, wiping away every trace of blood that formerly lingered in it. His body weakening at the onslaught, Aragorn feels himself dragged downwards and though it is beyond reason, he instinctively deepens the kiss. Faramir opens up and invites him inside. Aragorn’s own tongue slides along its partner and he is suddenly convinced that he could drown in this cold water. With fear hovering at the edges of his conscience, he sucks on Faramir’s tongue, drawing a small moan from him – and one from himself. Then he realises what he is doing and he pulls back abruptly, unable to look at Faramir and breathing unsteadily. He needs something to hold on to, to ground him, but his hands only find the soiled fabric of Faramir’s tunic.

“You saved me.”

Despite his state, Aragorn shakes his head, so keen to deny. His hands clutch the tunic and his hold strengthens. “No… No, this is my fault. You should not have come…” He shakes uncontrollably as he slowly begins to understand that this is reality.

Faramir reaches up and his cool hand cups Aragorn’s face, forcing the King to look at him. His eyes are half open but there is a shimmer in them. “You saved me,” he repeats softly but then a frown grows in his pale features, only to disappear after a moment. “Éowyn… Éowyn and the child… are dead…” His thumb caresses Aragorn’s lower lip. “Now it is no more than a distant memory. You freed me.”

The touch awakens a tingle that should not even exist in Aragorn’s stomach. His hold on the tunic relaxes and his hand is drawn downwards. He knows there should be a gash, a deep and deadly gash, in Faramir’s side but as his palm travels over it, he discovers that the wound has begun to heal. Swallowing down his fear, he carefully pushes aside the fabric but at the sight of the closing flesh, nausea rises within.

“What are you?” he whispers.

Faramir‘s silence forces Aragorn to meet his eyes yet another time.

“You made me.”

There is indeed water. Higher up, where the face of the stone is more angular, Aragorn finds an open space where a small pool glimmers in the dark night. From some unseen source, water trickles forth and creates it, and equally slowly water flows from it, running in faint streaks down the mountain side. Stone encircles them but the dark sky forms a heavy canopy above them. There are no stars.

Faramir stumbled before him as they searched for shelter. Now he slides to the ground with a long sigh, and his eyes close in exhaustion. Aragorn watchfully drop to his knees beside him and he divides his attention between the pool and the pallor of Faramir’s lips. Reaching across Faramir’s chest, he dips his fingertips into the water and though it is icy to the touch, no chill rushes through him.

“I need to wash you,” he mumbles more to himself than to Faramir who still lies with his eyes closed. He needs to wash too since blood, dirt and dried sweat is smeared over his skin and weighs down his clothes.

Submerging his hand, he scoops up a handful of water but then hesitates. He should clean the wound. With his other hand, he pushes aside the fabric once again and this time he is better prepared. Gently he probes the angry red skin and hopes the water is clean enough. Though somehow he doubts that it matters.

When the water is released over the wound, Faramir writhes on the gravel. His eyes open and a small hiss bursts from his lips.

“I need to wash you,” Aragorn repeats as the tunic seeps up the superfluous water.

Suddenly Faramir’s hand catches his, so quickly that he has no time to pull away. “Touch me. Again.” He guides the hand down to his stomach and Aragorn finds his fingers splaying over the naked skin.

His hand is covering the wound but gradually it slips lower. Without truly comprehending, Aragorn follows its journey downwards, and when he brushes against the waistband of Faramir’s breeches, he acknowledges the old longing that he has kept hidden for so long. Faramir’s eyes are fixed on his face. He can feel their penetrating force urging him on, and his head swims as he hovers on the edge.

“Let go,” Faramir whispers and it seems to Aragorn that the water of the pool briefly stops moving.

And he gives in.

Stretching out beside Faramir, he lets his hand brush over a hip bone.

“I wanted you.” It is his own lips that form the forbidden words, and his own tongue that pushes them out into the night. “I always wanted you…” He buries his face in Faramir’s hair, in the crook of his neck as his hand still only tentatively explores the course fabric. “I would touch myself and I would think only of you.”

“Arwen..?”

The name seems to belong to a different world. Faramir’s hand grasps his own and pushes it closer to his covered manhood.

“Knew…”

Knows?

If he better knew the time, if Aragorn were anchored in the world he could say for certain. He breathes in the scents of battle and building lust that are mingling between them and raises his head to meet Faramir’s gaze.

“You are my desire,” he whispers even as he moves even closer to lie pressed against the slim form. “From the moment I found you in the Darkness, you have been my breath, my living heart, my dreams and my craving.”

Faramir’s lips twitch as if he wants to speak, but Aragorn will not hear him. “I was fated to marry Arwen, as through us my blood would be passed on… But she knew she held not my love.”

A twist of thought brings him back to that time – and to another time yet when he found his wife, after the births of their son and two daughters, in a stolen and secret embrace; the Elf who had left Thranduil’s realm to dwell in Ithilien would better love the Evenstar and so he had blessed their love. Maybe that had been his last honourable deed for afterwards his thought was always bent on his Steward.

“Aragorn?” Faramir’s hoarse whisper chases the memories far away. Pale, pale blue eyes are unreadable. “Will you have me now?”

He holds back, so that he can fully feel the sweet stab of this blade through his breast. His confession comes only a second before his tongue plunders Faramir’s mouth:

“You are the centre of me.”

Teeth scrape against soft flesh and his hand that for so long lay idle upon leather boldly strikes and finds Faramir’s cloth covered length already semi hard. Aragorn grinds his groin against Faramir’s hips and emits a growl when the kiss is ruthlessly returned. He cares little for his Steward’s already ragged breeches and tears them apart, ignorant of any lacings. His hand dives inside and he greedily swallows Faramir’s gasp as his fingers encircle the engorged flesh. There is no waiting and no delay. Faramir pushes upwards, forcing Aragorn to tighten his grip and silently he commands him to stroke. Lips are swollen, but only slightly reddened, but the promise of life pounding in them urges Aragorn to kiss even more fiercely. His dirty hand is stroking up and down Faramir’s length fervently but when the younger man lets out a keening moan and the sound is thrown off the stone in waves, he lets go.

Faramir’s eyes are open and they are filled with a white-hot blaze. “Take me.”

Aragorn’s hands are shaking. He struggles to sit and fight his own breeches that stubbornly cling to his body. The need and the hunger threatens to overpower him and he fumbles – long enough to give Faramir time to react. With movements so swift that such a broken body as his should not have managed, the younger man gets to his knees and stills Aragorn’s frantic tugging with his own hands.

His calm voice blends with a cool wind that drifts across the stone. “Take me.”

Aragorn feeds on his words as if they were his very own source of existence. With a violent yank, he tears his breeches apart but he does not breathe as Faramir smiles and bends down to press a kiss near his hip bone. A shiver races across Aragorn’s skin.

“They cut you here,” says Faramir softly as his lips explore the healing wound. He experimentally licks at the sheen of dried blood. His smile turns wicked and the hunger that is already clawing at Aragorn’s insides explodes into full strength and causes his length to swell and ache.

He shoves Faramir back onto the ground and falls into his welcoming embrace. Tongues twirling and gasps shared, he rubs his aching erection against Faramir’s and he cares not that stone cuts into naked skin. Faramir is thrashing underneath him, his hands trying to push down his own breeches, making it easier to spread his legs. Aragorn’s lips are on his throat, sucking, even as his teeth, by some ancient and wild command, seek for a way to reach the blood underneath the skin. But he also knows, though it should be beyond his horizon, that they have not yet come to that. Snarling, Faramir finally conquers his own clothing and he digs his nails deep into Aragorn’s back, demanding to be filled.

Losing all finesse he has ever known of lovemaking, the King of Gondor plunges inside. Faramir’s cry pierces the night as his body is breached without preparation or warning. Aragorn sees nothing as he pounds into the body that is so unaccustomed to such usage and yet so willing. Into Darkness he thrusts, and he is himself Darkness, and together they are perfect.

He is conscious of the sounds he makes, and those of his lover. He can feel the wetness spreading across his belly as Faramir’s cock weeps. He lies flat against the body that he is taking, fucking it desperately and feverishly though there is no sweat upon his brow. Faramir smells of death and life fused, and there is no one more tempting upon Arda, and there never will be. Aragorn will never again need anyone else but him.

“Taste you…”

The words, almost torn apart by gasps and groans leave Faramir’s lips only a moment before his sensitive spot is hit. There is a cry and then sharp pain slices through Aragorn’s throat and he thinks he shall lose his mind. Faramir’s lips immediately close around the wound and he claims the blood that gushes forth for his own.

Suck me.

To Aragorn it is as if Faramir’s lips are in two places: as if they stay upon his throat, and as if they simultaneously are sucking his painfully hard erection. Thus assaulted he cannot prolong this act of carnal joining and so he comes violently, pounding into his lover with all his strength and a scream that has no human counterpart.

Then all is Darkness.

Faramir’s chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm though it is long after he has exhaled that he needs to draw another breath. Aragorn does not move as he comes back to awareness and temporarily his hunger is stilled; the night nourishes him and strength gradually returns to his body.

He shifts where he lies and finds that he is still sheathed inside Faramir. Pleasure washes over him, and so does memory, and he wonders when his lover’s body is ready to have him again. As if Faramir could read his thoughts, the younger man winds an arm around his shoulders.

“You were gone.”

Aragorn caresses his sides with lazy fingers. “I could never leave you.” A smile grows suddenly on his lips and he lifts his head from Faramir’s chest. “I surrendered to the Dark, to you, my love.”

Faramir regards him for many long moments and then he nods against the stone. “Will you have me forever bound?”

Aragorn traces his cheekbone with his fingertips. “I shall be your servant…”

Faramir smiles. “My master, my lord…”

“My lover.” Suggestively, Aragorn circles his hips and feels the responding push of desire running through the body beneath him.

“Where shall we go?” Faramir gazes up at him. There are traces of fresh blood upon his cheek.

The answer comes to him at once, and he doubts no more. Leaning down, Aragorn trails his tongue tip down Faramir’s throat. “To Osgiliath,” he whispers.

When he looks up, his lover is smiling and through the entwined shadows of the night, Aragorn can see his sharp teeth gleaming, and down his spine slips a shiver of ice cold delight.

End

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