Faramir Fiction Archive

Devoid of Love (R)

Written by Minx

29 March 2004 | 11953 words

Chapter 5

Legolas clutched the young man around him, patting the dark head softly, and felt the fingers clench around his clothes.

“Ssh, dear one, it’s all right, I am here. Faramir?” he nudged the unconscious body in his arms.

“Faramir? Are you all right?”

Putting a hand up to the other’s bruised cheek, he was shocked to note the warmth radiating off it. And then he realised that Faramir was wearing little but a thin robe, and it was cold. He cursed himself for forgetting the other would feel the cold more than him and be affected worse by it.

Scooping up the limp body with ease he walked out towards the steward’s room. Faramir felt light and easy to carry, causing Legolas to frown softly. The sight of a listless young man picking desultorily at his meals hit him with a blinding clarity. Not for the first time that day, he cursed himself for adding to Faramir’s worries. He quite distinctly remembered Aragorn once expressing worry over his steward’s health, saying he was quite sure that the man was yet to recover from the loss of his family, and that his injuries still bothered him at times.

When he reached Faramir’s room, he promptly laid the man down on the bed, and felt his forehead again. It was still warm. Reaching a hand under the robe, he frowned as he felt the heat. He would have to do something to make him more comfortable. Call the healers perhaps. But, he would first try reviving him.

Grabbing the cloth he’d used earlier, he got some fresh water, and began wiping the man’s face with it. Faramir sighed and wriggled a little trying to avoid the icy cold touch.

“Ssh, love, let me do this,” Legolas whispered.

He opened the bindings holding the robe, and wiped the hot torso with the cloth, his hand stopping as it reached the scar on the shoulder that had been caused by a southron dart and left the young man in a fever that only Aragorn had been able to cure him of. The scar was still there, ugly and red. Faramir still had problems with that hand sometimes, Legolas knew, some days he had seen him openly favour his left hand when he thought no one was looking.

Faramir moved again, and then started muttering something. Legolas leaned forward thinking he was awakening and listened with growing anger to the words that tripped out.

“Father! No, please don’t hit me, father! I am sorry, father, please, please, no.”

The soft cries continued, “No, please nooo!”

The elf cursed himself once again. To have to have added to the nightmares!

“Faramir,” he whispered brokenly, his eyes tearing up at the sight of the anguished figure lying on the bed, “I am sorry, Faramir, will you ever forgive me?”

“Oh love,” he cried softly, grabbing the steward’s hand and stroking his cheek, wincing when he saw the bruises again.

Faramir continued to moan softly, he was obviously not just fevered but also in pain from everything he had been through. He was shivering sporadically, so Legolas tied up the bindings on the robe again, and then grabbing the blankets on the bed, covered him with them. He held him in his arms tight and snug, resting the other’s head on his shoulder, soft dark hair brushing his neck and chin. He gently rubbed his hand across Faramir’s back and continued making small crooning noises.

It took a while but he managed to calm him down so that Faramir now lay quietly in his arms, his breathing soft and slightly raspy, but also a little warm. The elf gave him a long look. The face had relaxed somewhat now, and the lines stood out clearly, cheeks pale, lips almost bloodless, circles starting off under the eyes. And a sadness that showed up on the young face, even in sleep. Legolas bent his face and brushed his lips against the soft hair, wondering how he could have been so blind to the desperation on the other’s face for all these days.

He had realised quite early that he was attracted to the young steward, but had realised the extent of his feelings only recently. For the last few weeks, he had actively looked out for Faramir whenever he entered a room, and had secretly observed his lithe movements, listened to his soft quiet voice that was rarely heard but when it was, uttered words of startling depth and clarity. And he had begun to realise that in his own way Faramir was beautiful. The grey eyes tinged with a sadness and a depth that was said to exist only among the elven kind, the light frame, a carriage that indicated he was a good warrior, and beautiful hands that were invariably held out to give or involved in toil. And from what little he could remember of his drunken stupor last night, he had a beautiful body too. He remembered the pale, smooth skin. Unconsciously he tightened his grip around the other’s waist feeling his own fingers clench around the flat stomach, and his hand began to inch downwards, slowly inexorably downwards… he controlled himself just in time.

“What is it about you, that I must touch you, feel you, kiss you, love you, whenever I see you? You sit there so quiet and thoughtful, hiding away your pains. You drive yourself too hard,” he whispered to the insensible figure, looking at the calluses in the palm. He held Faramir’s hand in one of his and squeezed it gently. Faramir murmured something softly, and then began to stir.

Legolas picked up the wet cloth and once again began wiping the slightly flushed face with it, all the while softly encouraging him to open his eyes. Grey eyes stared dully out at his own blue ones.

“You fainted. Are you feeling better now? Or will you have me call a healer?” the elf prince asked him tenderly.

Faramir shook his head faintly, “No, do not bother the healers, I will be all right, I just felt a little weak.”

“When did you last eat?”

“Yester morn.”

“And not after that?” Legolas demanded.

“Aragorn had some correspondence to be finished, and I did not notice the time, but it does not matter. I was not hungry.”

“You do not look after yourself, at all. You have lost much weight and strength. Do you not care?”

“No.”

“Faramir! Do not say that! You are ill.”

Faramir sighed. He was so tired, and the elf had to keep speaking. It was giving him a headache. He wanted to get up, go away from him, go away from everyone, but he was so tired, and Legolas’ arms felt so strong about him. He liked the embrace but hated himself for liking it. He loved Legolas, he realised that, but then Legolas didn’t love him, and it was all going to happen all over again. The pain of rejection. Would he never be free of it?

“I will be fine now. You can go back to your room if you please. I am sorry to have troubled you so much.” He said stiffly, not raising himself from the other’s arms, but at the same time not looking up at the other.

*If I look up, I will see scorn and derision at my weakness. All these years of weakness. Now I have proved him right. I am not half the man Boromir was. I cannot take it, not again, I cannot. He loves another.*

He felt Legolas stiffen and waited with muted breath for the arms to unwrap themselves and leave him to his solitude and misery once again. But they stayed around him.

“Why do you wish me to leave?” there was a strange tone in the other’s voice, “I hurt you, is that why?” He kept his hand around the man too, after all Faramir had not moved, why should he? He wanted nothing more than to hold him in his arms as long as possible, to comfort his weary mind, and to love him.

He hugged him tighter, feeling the man stiffen under him.

“You can leave now, the others will be searching for you.”

“At this hour?” Legolas said puzzled looking towards the window, sunrise is an hour away yet, and everyone lies in drunken stupour everywhere. And I will stay here and look after you,” Legolas declared.

“I know you have other things to do,” Faramir insisted, flinching as the elf pushed his dark hair off his face.

“All I have to do,” Legolas said tenderly, “ is look after you, for you are ailing. And I fear I may have hurt you earlier. I should not have… “

“No, you asked me before – before… , and I said yes… and … ,” he gulped a little and pulled himself out of the elf’s embrace suddenly. He sat cross-legged on the rumpled sheets and then pushing away the blankets, swung his legs down. He looked down at himself, noting the dark bruises on his wrist, sensing the bruises that dotted his body. He pushed himself unsteadily up, ignoring the helping arm proffered by Legolas. He felt a wave of dizziness and nausea assail him but somehow managed to control it. When he stood erect finally, he almost fell again, as pain ripped through his lower body.

“I did not want you like that,” Legolas said brokenly.

“No, you did not want me under you, did you?” Faramir could not stop the words from leaving his mouth, “you wanted the king, and you could not have him, so you settled for the first one you came across. And, and I have loved you many days but from afar for compared to Elessar I am but nothing.” And with that Faramir unsteadily walked away from the elf’s shocked expression, and outstretched arms.

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