Faramir Fiction Archive

Devoid of Love (R)

Written by Minx

29 March 2004 | 11953 words

Title: Devoid of Love
Author: Minx
Pairing: Faramir/Legolas
Rating: R
Disclaimer: LOTR and all its characters belong to Tolkien
Archiving: Drop me a line before you do
Warnings: Angst, implied rape and violence
Summary: A drunk Legolas gives in to his feelings for a depressed Faramir, who responds initially but then draws back haunted by shadows of the past. Legolas gets angry. And so things ensue...
Feedback: Would love it! – greenrivervalley@gmail.com

Archivist's note: Heilt has made a lovely series of pictures to accompany this story.

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Chapter 1

Sounds of laughter and idle chatter wafted through the high ceiling-ed hall as joy and mirth reigned supreme among the wedding guests. The bride glowed with pride and love while the groom’s countenance exhibited his pleasure, as did the revered look that crossed his eyes each time he set eyes on the golden haired fair lady he had just bound himself in marriage to.

While in a tiny alcove just outside the room, a dark haired young man looked out of the window at the starry sky, trying to forget that the woman he loved was marrying another. Faramir, Steward of Gondor and the newly named Prince of Ithilien had fallen in love with Éowyn of Rohan the moment he had seen her while both were recovering from injuries during the War of the Ring. How Éowyn felt about him he had never known, for at first she was infatuated with Aragorn, heir to Gondor’s throne, and then when Faramir had helped her differentiate childish fancy from true love, she had met his cousin bringing in messages from Cormallen, where the king had set up camp prior to setting up taking up his kingship in Minas Tirth.

Faramir had had no intention of attending the wedding expecting it to be held either in Rohan or in Dol Amroth, his cousin’s land, but various circumstances combining together had demanded the presence of a number of noteworthy people in Minas Tirth at the time set for the wedding, and therefore Aragorn had insisted that Minas Tirth be allowed to host it, much to the disappointment of the common folk in both places.

Faramir sighed as he watched the night sky dispassionately, feeling the gnawing pain in his heart, a strange aching feeling that somehow transmitted itself to his temples causing an intense ache. He felt the familiar tensing of his muscles, despair and desolation overcoming him, as the now common feeling of loneliness set in with a vengeance, painfully reminding him yet again of the deaths of his father and brother. He tried desperately to loosen himself up willing his taut muscles to relax, causing the ache in his temples to intensify.

From the hall came the sound of raucous laughter and joyous singing, getting louder by the minute, the effect of the strongest dwarven ales available in the middle earth, a dangerously potent drink for one unused to them, such as elves. The loudest peals of laughter came from a familiar source. Faramir felt himself tensing once again, as that sound reached his ears. Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood, he who would soon be setting up an elven colony in Ithilien near Faramir’s own princedom. He felt angered at his own irrational apprehension, but could do little to control it. The sound of Legolas’ voice always invoked that feeling. For when addressing him, it always held a thin veil of sarcasm, accompanied by a most sardonic lift of an exquisite elven eyebrow. And the words themselves dripped with barbs that pained him so much that only his father’s words had ever cut deeper. To hear himself being contradicted with such elaborate politeness that other onlookers did not see or feel the accompanying sneer was pure torture. For the words came from one whom he had admired at sight. Soft smooth fair skin, golden hair that fell like a sheet, tall in height and personage, lean yet undoubtedly strong, muscles that rippled when the hand tightened around the bow he always carried . . . Faramir could go on endlessly about the other’s virtues.

He knew he felt strongly for the elf, he had admired other men before, and knew that it was not uncommon for a man to love another man or even a male elf, but after his first few encounters with the elf, the severe snubs had convinced him that in future he must let his head rule. In matters of the heart he had forever failed. All his life, love was something he had forever given, but rarely received in return, be it Éowyn or the young daughter of one of the lords who had consorted with him merely to get close to his brother, or his father. His brother, Boromir had tried to make up for his father’s affection but with each progressive year, it had been glaringly obvious that having to choose between brother and father set an undue pressure on Boromir, so that he had begun to seem relieved at having to return to his soldiering duties away from his family. Boromir had loved him, but they had had little time together once he had joined the army and even less when Faramir had followed in his footsteps. And with Legolas he felt the elf held him a poor comparison to his brother who had been part of the fellowship along with the elf. Boromir’s valour was oft spoken of by the remaining members. And Legolas’ first comment on seeing him had been a whisper about his not being an inch of the warrior Boromir had been.

Love was not something he would foolishly burn his fingers with again. So, he thrust away his feelings for Legolas into a far corner of his self, where it weighed down upon him, like the guilt of being the one to survive, like each rejection from a loved one. He had no more love to give he told himself, he had given and given, and none had been returned, so he was devoid of any to give now. He wrapped his cloak tighter around him, and set off away from the revelry until he found a small room in a relatively deserted corner of the citadel. He entered it, and threw his cloak onto a chair before walking up to the window and looking out at the stars again.

He leaned forward against the wall letting his aching forehead rest against the cool stonework, searching for peace, and finding none, begging his overworked mind to desist putting undue pressure on itself, when he felt a soft touch on his shoulder.

“My Lord Steward,” the mocking tone sent a spiraling wave of pain to his head, and the smell of Gimli’s dwarven ale reached his nostrils leaving him nauseous. He remained where he was, unable to move, as the pain reached a crescendo, until all he was aware of was a loud drumming in his ears. He felt a hand go around his neck and turn him around, a soft voice was saying something, and the bindings that knotted his tunic in front were being removed, exposing his neck and chest to cool air. He was being held up, for he found he had no strength to stand on his own, and his hand flew up grabbing at green cloth, soft to touch, his fingers lightly brushing over the body it encased, and then his other hand came up suddenly and lightly caressed the soft smooth face of the elf, as he had often wished to.

The prince of Mirkwood was certainly under the influence of dwarven ale. He had seen the steward wander away and had followed him with no definite purpose, but on finding him in a near faint in his arms, he struggled to regain his senses, until the caress that electrified his very being. That touch – it had been all he had expected and more. His breath had caught and he had let go of the young man in his state of bliss. Faramir buckled under, his other hand still clenching the tunic, and only natural elven reflexes had helped Legolas grab him before he hit the floor.

Legolas grabbed the young steward by his arm, and pulled him back roughly meeting with little resistance. The man looked wan and tired, and was almost leaning into his arms, a soft scent from his dark hair wafting up to the elf’s nostrils as his head dipped slightly against his chest. Legolas gently placed a finger under Faramir’s chin and raised his head up, taking in the lines around the mouth and eyes, the circles under his closed eyes, and the pale neck thrown back now, with the irresistible dip just above the collar bone that showed up through loosened tunic.

He continued to hold the man against his body with one arm, and used the other to lightly finger the exposed collarbone and then the tiny dip in the throat, causing a soft moan from the man. The neck muscles constricted slightly sending a thrill coursing through Legolas’ body. He traced an upward path with his finger lightly dancing across Faramir’s cheek, up to his forehead, across his eyebrows, and then back again, bringing it to rest near his mouth. Faramir shuddered and sent out another moan, his hand tightening its grip on Legolas’ tunic.

Legolas ran his fingers lightly over the now colourless lips, gently pressing down the lower lip that so often pouted each time he made a sharp remark. It had amused him constantly to see the fall in Faramir’s expression every time he made a cutting reply, the eyes would cloud over slightly, the cheeks display the faintest hint of a pale pink, and the lower lip would jut out into a pout that often made the elf wonder what it would be like to grasp that lip between his teeth and suck at it. The very first time he had seen him, forgetting that Faramir had been injured and was still not completely healed, he had taken in the lean frame and haggard face, and expressed surprise that such a one could be Boromir’s brother, for of Boromir’s valour and bravery none was in doubt. Faramir had heard him, and his expression was like that of a puppy kicked by its master, and etched in the elf’s memory was the sight of those luscious lips hanging open, and a strange emotion reflected on the steward’s face. He had therefore taken to contradicting the young steward often though not unreasonably, and had always maintained a supercilious tone in his reply, and a superior manner in all their interactions, knowing it left Faramir flustered and inadequate.

He had tried telling himself to stop it for he was doing no noble deed by constantly putting down the man. But it was difficult to break the habit, and besides he felt he could not do without that pouting expression. He had however regretted it greatly, some days prior, at the dinner table, when the lip had trembled, and the eyes had shined brightly before glancing down at something on the floor. The shoulders had squared rigidly, and it had taken a while for the head to rise, a composed look once again schooling the man’s features. Aragorn had been furious, Gimli had disapproved, even Arwen had been angry, when he had remarked that Faramir was the wrong person to comment on the war of the ring when he hadn’t been there. He had felt like kicking himself, but could not bring himself to apologize to Faramir. Instead the hurt eyes that stared soulfully at him, stayed imprinted in his mind. How he had wanted to grab him, crush his mouth, and assure him that he did not hate him.

He tapped lightly on the slightly open mouth as gasping breaths came through it, warm air hitting the tips of his long fingers, the mouth widening a little, the pout being enhanced. He could hold it no longer. He bent down, and pulling Faramir’s face toward him, bit at that luscious lower lip, feeling the slight taste of the strawberries that had been served earlier. He nipped lightly all along the lip, causing another moan. And then, covered the open mouth with his own, pushing his tongue in, exploring, while at the same time sending light feathery touches up and down Faramir’s spinal column. He could feel the man buck under him, grunting as his mouth blocked the passage of air, and continued to ruthlessly kiss him.

Faramir’s eyes flew open as his brain cajoled him back to full consciousness, screaming for air, and when Legolas finally drew back, he took a shuddering gasp of breath and looked into those blue eyes, fearing what he might see. Blue eyes feasted hungrily on him, displaying almost an urgency as they roved over his lean frame. And then, Legolas suddenly pushed him against the wall, and bent and licked his neck lightly. Faramir found himself staring at a pointed ear, and before he realised it, had started nibbling at that one pointy tip. The reaction was one of joy. Legolas groaned, and thrust his groin against Faramir’s body pushing him further against the cool stone wall. Faramir licked the ear and ran a hand through the golden tresses that were held in place by a clasp.

“Estel!”

The cry was soft, almost a whisper, but loud enough for Faramir to hear it as it was whispered in his ear. He stiffened immediately, his senses on a high keel, his mind screaming. He felt a strange coldness, as he suddenly pushed the elf off him, not with force, but by simply ducking out from under his embrace. He felt his cheeks flush, as he picked up his cloak. Then he felt a hard grip on his shoulder as the elf whirled him around fury shooting out of the azure eyes.

He thrust the hand away, his grey eyes reflecting hurt and humiliation, but to Legolas all that was visible was one who had rejected him. Faramir pushed away and bolted out of the door as he felt tears sting his eyes. By the time he was out of the door, his cheeks were wet, and the tears were flowing unchecked all through his run to his chambers.

Legolas froze for a moment, until anger gave him wings. He grabbed the half full bottle he had left on a table and raced after the steward, surprisingly fast for one completely drunk, and slipped a booted foot through the door just as the man was about to shut it.

He strode in his face a mask of barely suppressed anger that seemed to root the steward to his spot. Taking a long swig from the bottle, he placed it on a desk before grabbing Faramir by his shoulders and shaking him fiercely.

“You wanted this! I know you did!” he hissed, the stench of the ale strong and unimpaired.

“L- Legolas, p-please - ,” Faramir found himself begging, his tired mind unable to think, muscles protesting, stabbing pains shooting threw his neck and head, and as he was shaken viciously, every bone in his body seemed to rattle.

“I have seen you watch me! You think I’m blind?” Legolas suddenly struck out, his hand coming into sudden and forceful impact with the unprotected face. Faramir gasped in agony, more tears welling in his eyes. And then another backhanded slap across the other cheek, before he was roughly thrown onto his bed.

He fell heavily from the sudden movement, tried to regain his winded breath and then panicked as an obviously very drunk elf took yet another heavy swig of dwarven ale, and threw himself on the bed next to him. Strong arms reached for him, and dragged him closer, long fingers pushed up his tunic and pulled at the string holding up his leggings.

Chapter 2

Faramir wriggled around trying to escape, but Legolas had placed one strong arm on his chest, preventing movement. He tried to thrash his hands and legs, but nothing moved the elf prince until he had unknotted the string. Faramir bit back a sharp sob, as Legolas lightly caressed his exposed skin with his index finger. He drew circles around the navel, and then stretched a line down the stomach to where the loosened leggings now rested, and each time his finger would come one tantalizing inch closer. Faramir cried out again, as the action aroused him, and then angry with himself flailed his arms uselessly at the elf.

Legolas was fascinated by the young steward’s skin, it held a smooth textured look to it, that he sighed dreamily as he ran his finger across it. The sigh turned to a smirk as he watched the bulge under the leggings grow. Taking hold of the waistband of the leggings, he gave them a jerk. Faramir sat up suddenly grabbing at the leggings trying to keep them on. He was shoved back, and then the elf was straddling him, tugging at his clothes, lifting his lower body off the bed, so that he could dispose of the pants as soon as possible. He whipped them off with a flourish, and then hopped off, watching the naked legs shivering in front of him. Faramir was trying to cover himself by curling up on his side and placing his hands over himself. Legolas sat by the silently sobbing steward a smirk on his face showed him to still be drunk.

He ran a hand over the steward’s exposed hip and behind, his fingers inching their way towards the crack. Faramir suddenly rolled away, and tried to get off the bed. Legolas however would have none of that. He pounced on Faramir, pinning him down as he lay half on the bed, and half off it. He yanked him back roughly and rolled him over on to his back, pinning his arms over his head with one hand, while with the other he reached for Faramir’s tear-streaked face.

“Ssshh,” he crooned softly, as terrified grey eyes stared out at him.

He ran a finger over the lips again. He loved those lips. Faramir gave out a stifled cry, and tried to jerk away, but to no avail. The hand traced a downward pattern along his tunic before reaching his exposed groin. Faramir thrashed his legs and bucked underneath the touch, shuddering as Legolas’ hand caressed the sensitive area playfully. He groaned loudly, a groan filled with desire that did not escape the elven prince, who smiled, and suddenly removed the loving hand, inducing a frustrated sob from the steward.

“You do want it,” he purred seductively into Faramir’s face, and tightening his grip on his hands, ruthlessly attacked the steward’s lips with his mouth. He probed and bit hard, slamming his tongue around the mouth. He released Faramir’s hands, and grabbing the steward’s neck in both arms, lifted the unresisting man all the while relentlessly kissing him.

Faramir tried to resist but found himself simply plunging deep into a feeling he had never known before. His mind screamed at him to move away, reminding of the hurt that would follow if he let himself be captivated by desire. But his body refused to obey. It screamed and screamed louder than the voice in his head drowning it out, and pushed him closer into the elven prince’s ruthless kiss. He responded with a joy he had never felt before.

The elf suddenly pushed him back onto the bed and ground his body down upon him, seductively pressing down on his groin, all the while attacking with his mouth. His tunic got pushed upward exposing his bare body to the rough cloth covering Legolas, and the feeling induced an agonizing sense of upliftment in him. Faramir felt he would explode, as the elf suddenly pulled away and stared into his face, still pressing down on him, groin touching groin, with just the barrier of Legolas’ clothes between them.

He stared into the azure depths of those eyes, his mind still in a whirl after the assault. Legolas , breath coming in small gasps, as his chest heaved painfully up and down, and his body screamed for more. He grabbed at Legolas’ arms suddenly as he ground down on him again.

Legolas purred again, and Faramir closed his eyes in satisfaction letting the ecstasy of the elf’s nearness take over him.

But, just as suddenly as it had started, it ended. Legolas heaved himself off, and stood up, looking down at the steward with something like amusement in his eyes. Faramir felt a derisive gaze rest on him, and looked at himself. Hair in disarray, face flushed unbecomingly, his tunic bunched around his waist, and his own body betraying him, as he looked down at his groin. He curled up with a groan trying to control the throbbing erection.

“Did you like that?” Legolas smirked.

Faramir’s only response was a groan.

“You ran from me,” Legolas hissed, grabbing a handful of the steward’s hair, “No one ever runs from me, they come to me, all of them come to me, even your king, when he was younger came to me for comfort once, before he found Arwen.”

“Even your brother once came to me,” he purred, “But he was drunk and exhausted and I would not take advantage of that. But you, you ran from me! And you are not even half the man he was.”

The words were spat out with anger flashing from the blue eyes, cold as ice. The grip on the hair tightened causing tiny spikes of pain to race through Faramir’s head. A sharp sob escaped through dry lips, as the words cut like never before.

“I will show you why no one runs from me,” Legolas said savagely, as he tugged at the dark hair. Faramir howled as a sharp pain broke out in his head. He felt himself pulled forward again, and a resounding slap hit his already abused face once again.

“Did you hear me?” alcohol reeked from the elf’s breath.

Legolas reached out a hand out, and pushed him on to his stomach suddenly. A rustling sound of clothing being removed reached his ears.

Faramir writhed underneath the one hand that held him in place, “What -? No! Legolas, please no,” he heard himself screaming, “I have never before – ”

“You want me, do you not?” Legolas interrupted him.

“Yes,” it was the slightest whisper, and Faramir repeated it over and over again.

He was cut off by a sudden pain as a finger ruthlessly entered him, followed by a second.

It was as far as he got, for the next second, pain erupted, pain, as he’d never felt before. It ripped through his very being, causing him to scream, and he tried to will himself into slipping into nothingness but could not, as the agony kept him awake and made itself felt with startling clarity.

*You wanted this,* his mind hissed at him, *you asked for it, now enjoy it, you heeded not yourself, you would not pull away in time!*

But he had not wanted that while Legolas entered him, the only word that should come again and again out of the elf prince’s lips be “Estel.”

Chapter 3

Legolas awoke to the feel of something soft underneath him, his head throbbing, his mouth dry, and the overall feeling was not a happy one. He groaned cursing Gimli. It had to be his ale of course, each time Legolas drank it, he did something stupid, and he wondered idly what it was he’d one this time.

As long as he hadn’t jumped into the fountain in the courtyard fully clothed, he shuddered to himself, and lowered his head again back on the pillow…

… and sat up almost immediately, eyes flying open.

He gasped at the sight under him. He was lying in his tunic… atop the steward of Gondor. He backed away, almost falling off the bed, and took in the sight, horrified. Faramir lay half on and half off the bed, his head dangling down, eyes shut tight against a white face, mouth slightly open, cheeks covered in dark bruises, and lips swollen. His hair was all mussed up, and the clothes … *the clothes, * Legolas thought to himself, his horror increasing as he took in the half-naked, bleeding body.

The tunic lay bunched around the waist, the lower body bare and exposed and showing up clearly against white sheets, was a trail of blood between the legs.

He reached out shocked; a tentative hand to touch the figure underneath and assure himself it was real and no apparition.

Faramir did not respond to the touch. Legolas collected himself, and then tenderly picking up the steward’s body laid him carefully on the bed on his back, his own eyes filling up as he saw the young man’s condition. The startling memories of the prior night flooded back to him, and he felt an overwhelming feeling of shame course over him.

“Elbereth, what have I done?” he cried out softly, anguish and pain lacing his voice.

“Faramir,” he whispered softly to the steward, who lay there still and prone, the only sign of movement the small rise and fall of his chest.

He bit back a loud sob, and grabbing a nearby jug of water, tore a piece of cloth off the sheet, and began to clean up the man. Faramir moaned as his hand flew over the bruised sections of his face and lower body, and his eyes flew open.

They stared wearily out at Legolas.

“Faramir,” Legolas started brokenly.

A small tear rolled down the steward’s cheek, but he made no attempt to move.

“I am sorry,” Legolas whispered, softly touching the other’s cheek and wiping the tear away, “did I hurt you very badly?”

Faramir shook his head.

Legolas grabbed him suddenly and embraced him fiercely.

Faramir just lay in his arms, too spent to think clearly, if at all.

“My poor dear one,” Legolas whispered, “You should not have let me! I did not want for it to be like this.”

He held the slight body in his arms. Still to recover fully from his wound in the war, Faramir was as yet in the process of regaining his lost weight.

Now he lay in the strong arms, blinking back tears as he remembered the words Legolas had said to him last night. He wished he had the strength to pull away from the man who had humiliated him verbally, but could not. His heart would not agree. He felt himself being lowered back on the bed, and the wet cloth was again cleaning him up.

A hand reached for his tunic, and somewhere his befuddled mind raised a protest and told him the prince must not be allowed to see – but his body was too tired. The tunic rose, the cloth touched his chest, and calmed him down, he was turned onto his stomach, and then he heard the sharp gasp.

“Valar! What are these scars?”

The gasp brought him back to reality, and shame made him go red all over. He squirmed out of the elf’s grasp, tears coursing down his eyes, and grasped at the robe lying near his bed. He stared wild eyed at the elf, and a sob escaped his throat, as he backed off the bed, and pulling on the robe, raced out of the door before Legolas could come out of his shock and react.

Chapter 4

Legolas stood rooted in shock, still seeing in his mind the myriad scars that had coated the steward’s back, old scars but still visible enough to indicate the harshness of the wounds they must have once caused.

*Who could have - ?*

He suddenly realised that he should find Faramir and pulling on his clothes, raced out of the door trying to decipher where the steward might have taken off.

Faramir just ran, stumbling over every now and then, as the robe was long and certainly not meant for running in. But to him none of that mattered, he just wanted to get away. He stumbled through long winding corridors, dodging the sudden turns, as he wandered through the parts of the citadel that were no longer in use. His room was in one of the older wings away from the hustle and bustle of the wing where the others stayed. It suited him, for he knew he would be leaving for Ithilien soon. He ignored the pain coursing through his body and kept moving.

He panted as he reached the room, which had always been his refuge. After each beating, this was where he came to recover. The beatings – he shuddered as old memories came flooding back, the terrible ones that he’d tried to repress, to shut out. Now Legolas would guess, and that would be one more thing for him to humiliate him with.

For in his terrible state he had heard none of the concern in the elf’s voice. All he had heard was horror, and something else, revulsion?

Legolas walked through the corridors, silently for the day was yet to break, and all seemed asleep, save a few servants who were up early. He could hear them in the corridor to the left.

“The king is indeed a good man, the wedding was beautiful,” one, a woman was sighing.

“Aye,” grunted a male voice, “For the council did fear for the city after the death of Lord Denethor.”

“Why?” came a piping voice, “Lord Faramir is here isn’t he?”

A series of derisive grunts came in response.

“You know what the council says of Lord Faramir? He is no warrior, he is just a weakling!”

“Aye, look how tired he looks all the while, Lord Boromir was always energetic and getting things done, and a good soldier. Lord Faramir lost us the Pelennor, do not forget!”

Legolas gritted his teeth angrily, and strode down the hallway. He had seen the attitude of the White City’s council towards their new steward, a reflection, he had been told, of the old days when Faramir’s advice was never heeded by his father.

The servants scattered from their huddle at his sight, and went on with their duties. He ignored them, knowing they would only repeat what they heard from others, but it angered him to hear the rumors. While he himself would have agreed that Faramir was not like Boromir in terms of physical strength, especially after his injury, there was no doubting his tactical brilliance and intelligence.

Denethor! Legolas suddenly felt a sickening wrench in his gut. He knew somehow how those scars came to be. He remembered hearing someone say that Boromir had been the favoured son.

He stopped suddenly outside one of the small doors leading into the vast libraries housed in the citadel. It stood slightly ajar, a sign that someone had used it. His surmise was proven right at the sight of the steward huddled between two shelves, his knees pulled up to his chest, head resting on them.

He knelt in front of the figure, “Faramir,” his voice was soft as though speaking to a child.

The head jerked up suddenly, fear lining those beautiful grey eyes. Tears spilled over, and the frightened young man tried to inch away from the elf, but found he had nowhere to go. He whimpered unhappily.

Legolas reached out, his heart wrenching at the sight of the look on a face so young, eyes so soulful, and with so much pain apparent in them. He pulled the man into his arms, and lightly brushed the top of the dark head with his lips.

“It is all right, young one, I am here,” he muttered softly in elvish.

He could feel the tears soaking into his clothes, and he tightened his hold on the now trembling man in his arms.

Faramir ached all over, physically and mentally. He was sore from rough handling and he had not yet forgotten that while he had realised how deep his desire for Legolas ran, the elf himself had revealed *his* deepest desire – and it hadn’t been him. And on top of it all, he kept remembering the beatings.

The time his father had lashed him for accidentally scaring Boromir’s horse, and causing him to take a fall. Boromir had hurt his wrist, but it was a very light injury. Denethor’s hand that day had not been. Faramir had barely been able to stand when he’d finished. Boromir had never learnt since he’d been recovering from his own injury.

The time he had barged accidentally into his father in the hallway, and Denethor having just received news that his elder son and his men were besieged by orcs near Osgiliath and needed reinforcements, had taken out his frustration on him. He had dragged his younger son into his study, and had slapped him so hard that he had fallen to the floor. He remembered being dragged up by his hair and slapped over and over again till he was too dizzy to care.

What had followed remained a blur, the biggest whip Denethor owned had fallen innumerable times till his back was streaked with blood, and even then it had not stopped. His father had actually kicked him like he was kicking a dog.

“Get out of my sight, you worthless boy!” Denethor had cursed, with each kick to his ribs. Faramir had dragged himself over to his room, where he’d lain for many hours, insensible. When he awoke, he ministered to his injuries as best as he could with a salve that he kept a permanent store of, having no desire to go to the healer. Faramir had been fifteen then, a gangly youth, all skin and bones, and none of the good looks his brother possessed, and was often the butt of many a joke among the healer’s young assistants all of whom were in great awe of his brother. The rudimentary healing ensured that scars had remained for many years. Even now, though many scars had disappeared there were still enough to cause concern.

The beatings had stopped after that, probably because he also had taken up soldiering duties and stayed away from the city as much as possible, but the damage had been done. Whenever he came back, he spent most of his time in the library away from his father’s sight.

He heard his name being called out faintly and stared up, half scared, into blue eyes. In his half dazed state he tried to move away, but could not. He felt his cheeks turn wet, and then arms reached for him, and he fell into them brokenly, his head pounding non-stop, his body screaming for comfort.

He was shivering now, and his arms were wrapped around the back of the elf, taking comfort in the feel of the well-toned body, as his own hands felt limp as a sock.

Even when Legolas pulled away slowly, he kept his hands around him, shivering all the while, tears streaming down his face, clouding his vision. He felt strong hands pull him into their loving embrace, and a soft voice in his ear.

“What is it, love? Why do you cry so?” came the worried query.

He sobbed harder, leaning against the elf’s chest, holding onto him, desperately grabbing at him, as he felt an overwhelming blackness descend upon him.

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.

Chapter 6

Legolas’ mind went into a whirl at those words. First, Faramir loved him. Second -

*Aragorn! *

*Valar! That was eons ago now, when Aragorn had been young and depressed at the knowledge of his true identity. He had sought succour and Legolas had been the one to provide it, for he had held him very dear. And the first time they had both been drunk. That had not been dwarven ale though, it had been ale from a pub in a small village inhabited by humans, near Imaldris.

*These stupid ales! Why do I not learn to avoid them entirely? When the wine from Mirkwood tastes so good, why do I drink these foul things my friends fill themselves with? *

And then Estel had met Arwen, and found his true love, and Legolas had looked on Aragorn quite simply as one enamoured by him. Legolas had always incited amorous feelings in those who beheld him, and Estel had been no exception. They had initially thought themselves in love but had soon realised that all they had shared was few nights of passion waiting to be unleashed. Then why had he remembered him so while making love to the only one who had a place in his heart?

He had bedded others, elves naturally, but as a romp, a fact clear to both parties, neither putting their hearts into it, for their lives were long, and much lay to be done. But after Estel, he realised, he had had no one. Mirkwood had faced increasing threats from the darkness assailing Middle Earth, and he had a duty to do. And a few fifty odd years were nothing to one of his kind. It had been the time for war and action not love.

He tried to remember what it had been like under the trees in a clearing near the village when he had lain with the future king but could not. He tried to remember the feel of Aragorn’s mouth in his mouth, and found he could not even recall what his dear friend’s mouth looked like unless he actually thought about it. And what he recalled was his mouth as of now, with lines, around it, weathered lips, teeth yellowed by that insufferable pipeweed he always smoked. Estel’s mouth could never have been like that at twenty! And the body he saw was of Aragorn, a kingly warrior’s, not of an unhappy young man named Estel. And none of these visions filled him with love as he now came to know it. They filled him with liking, yes, for Estel was a truly dear friend, with a love born out of friendship and loyalty. But not love for the sake of love.

No, when his heart filled up with that strange emotion he was now beginning to recognise, when he felt nothing else mattered as long as his deepest fondest desire was with him, when that desire coursed through his veins like hot metal, he saw his true love.

He saw beautifully sculpted lips that curved down in sadness, pouting lips that made him shiver, a lean figure, but one of a warrior, and grey eyes that held a wisdom rarely seen in his kind and seen more among the Eldar race. Grey orbs tinged with pain and sorrow.

He loved Faramir, now if only he could convince him of that!

Again he went hunting for the man. His search finally brought him to the cool environs of one of the gardens. Standing near the wall that looking out over the city and beyond to the fields of Pelennor, watching the lightening sky, stood the one he sought.

“Faramir?”

---

Faramir’s mind was in turmoil. When he had left his room he had been unhappy and angry. Now after walking slowly around the citadel, he had finally reached the garden in search of peace and quiet. Ignoring the early morning chill, he stood in his thin robe, watching the sky.

Legolas made him feel like no other had done before. A simple touch from the elf was enough to send him into ecstasy. Those lips on his – the thought was overwhelming. How much he’d love for Legolas to kiss him. To take him in his arms, to take him – as a lover should not as a drunk with no control . The humiliating experience of ending up in a drunken elf’s bed for the night still weighed on him.

To be made love to by a man for the first time – in a manner more fitting one from a brothel. He had been taken by surprise, with no preparation. And to hear another’s name on your beloved’s lips. He was simply an outlet for the elf to take out his pent-up frustration. The first person he’d come across.

One sudden, brutal thrust and then he’d thought he’d explode from the pain. He was so sore he could not sit at all. His gait had been awkward as his body began to resist his restlessness. Pain constantly reverberated through his body with every move as if to remind him of his humiliating and abject surrender. He needed sleep, most of all he needed rest, but he would not do that. He would not succumb to such weaknesses after making a fool of himself in front of the elf. Such a fool. Seduced by an elf whose breath had reeked of ale.

*But you wanted it. * his heart screamed at him. *And you want more. Go back to him. He’ll make love to you. He’ll kiss you. He’ll caress you with those long fingers of his, and cause you untold ecstasy merely by being near you. *

*And then he’ll leave you. *his mind shouted back, *He’ll leave you lying in the corner, discard you after he’s used you, and then you’ll cry again. Pathetic useless fool. Forget him!*

Faramir gave a ragged sob, and clutched at the wall as if seeking an answer of some sort. What was he to do. Now that he had been with Legolas once, he would never forget it. He wanted more, much more. He wanted to always be near Legolas drink in his sight. But what when he left? Should he live for now, the present, or for the future? Live for the exhilaration of Legolas’ touch, to revel in being made love to that beautiful creature.

Go back to him while he was still under the influence of that accursed ale for there was no other way Legolas could want him.

The elf was so good looking, so perfect, so brave and strong, one of the nine of the famed fellowship, one of those who fought in the war. What could he see in a steward who had no duty now that the king was here, and one with an ugly scarred body, weak and pathetic, unable to defend himself, even from his own heart, one who had fallen in the field of battle. One who had let his brother go in his stead to face untold danger that had proven fatal. One who by falling in battle had made his father kill himself. He was worthless. Why would an elf want him? Why would an elf like Prince Legolas of Mirkwood want him?

He should be grateful to the ale for giving him that opportunity, once the influence wore away, he would be thrown away like an old sock. He could just picture the horror on Legolas’ face when he would regain his sobriety and realise he had wasted his time on him. And the derision, the scorn, and the arrogance of having forced himself upon Faramir. And that Faramir wanted him.

No! He must not give in.

*I will not give in. I will avoid him, and try to forget what it felt like. I must. I must forget. I must. *

“Faramir,” Leoglas said a little apprehensively, seating himself on a bench in the garden.

The steward turned around at the sudden sound, grey eyes bright with unshed tears. Seeing Legolas, he stiffened and then made as if to move, then apparently changed his mind, and stood resolutely at the wall his lips set. He met the elf’s blue eyes seemingly calmly, but to one of the Eldar race the turmoil inside was apparent.

Legolas patted the place next to him, only to flush a little as Faramir stiffened yet again, and refused, a look of pain crossing his features, a slight tremble passing through his body. Legolas had left him in no position to sit on a hard cold stone bench. So, the elf arose, and stood next to his beloved at the wall, hidden from all eyes by the trees in the garden.

“You said you loved me?” he asked the steward abruptly.

There was no response. Over the horizon, a streak of pale light heralded the beginning of the sun’s journey. Legolas sighed, “Estel and I – we – it was many years ago,” he started abruptly.

Faramir’s resolve broke. He simply sank to the ground his head buried in his hands as the thoughts tumbled through his head.

*What do I do? How will I live knowing I can never have him? *

“What do I do?” he sobbed aloud.

“Listen to me,” a soft and gentle voice commanded him. He lifted his head and glanced up.

Legolas was standing right next to him now.

“I love you,” the elf told him.

Faramir shook his head tiredly, “It is not you that speaks, it is the ale.”

Legolas shook his head impatiently, “Nay, that wore off many eons ago. It is I who speak, and I tell you, Faramir of Gondor, that I love you more than anything else on Middle Earth. “

“You called for the king,” Faramir repeated, “Twice.” You kissed me and thought you were kissing Elessar, you made love to me,” he gulped as he uttered the words, even saying that sent a shiver down his spine, “you – you made lo – love to me, but called for Elessar.”

“No, Faramir, it is true Estel and I shared a bed many years ago, but it was only a union of our bodies, not of our hearts. It was borne out of need, not love. Estel is no more than a memory to me now and I to him. If I call for him, it is because of that memory, the only memory I have of giving into passion in many years. I see no other reason. He means nothing but a faded page from days long past. It is over now. My love is for you and only you.”

Faramir shook his head again, “You cannot love me, I am not worthy of even your slightest attention. It is the king you love, and he deserves it, for he is good and lordly and handsome and brave, and I am none of these.”

“Faramir!” Legolas admonished, “I beseech you, listen to me, you are all of that and more. You are gentle and kind, and deserve all the love I can give you. It is I who am not worthy of your love for me, after the things I have done to you.”

“I have said much to you that I should not have, I have hit you and hurt you,” he raised a hand to the other’s bruised face, slowly so that he would not scare him away, “I have treated you shabbily and what I did last night was unpardonable. I treated you without respect and if for that you never want to see me again, I will understand, but I beg of you, do not do that, for I will not be able to bear the thought of not seeing you again!”

Tears rolled down the steward’s face, and Leoglas brushed them away, his own eyes tearing up as his heart tore at the sight of his love’s distraught face.

“When I ask to see the face of my heart’s desire, it is you I see,” he whispered, “it is your grey eyes filled with all the kindness and gentleness in this world that I see, it is your face that I wish to caress, your lips I want in mine.”

“Do you not love me as you said?” Legolas asked him tenderly, tracing one long finger along his lips.

“My heart tells me I do, but my head tells me to stay away from love,” Faramir whispered.

Legolas pushed his finger in a little, and continued exploring Faramir’s lips with it.

“Then listen to your heart, dearest. I love you Faramir, can you not see that?”

“Do not toy with me so, I beg of you, my prince, I can take it no longer,” Faramir said brokenly.

“I do not toy with you,” Legolas took the steward’s troubled face in his hands and stared straight into his eyes, “You have been hurt much, and hurt badly all these years, and I have only hurt you more, but it was only because I knew not how you would feel. Oh love, it is fear of your rejection that forced me to play about like I did. I do love you. Can you not see that?”

“What is love?” Faramir said unhappily, “I fear I do not know it. They say my father loved me for he tried to kill me so I would die with him. But if he loved me, why did he slight me so? I thought Éowyn loved me but she loved another, and when I thought you loved me, you ask for Elessar. What do I do?” he wailed out suddenly.

“My heart feels empty, I am afraid, I do not know, Legolas, I do not know what I wish, except to sleep and wake no more. Oh Legolas, this misery claws at me very day, and I feel I can face it no longer. What do I do? I wish not to live, not to face another day.”

“No, Faramir, do not even speak so even in jest,” Legolas cried out desperately, yearning to envelope the forlorn looking man in his arms and comfort him, but scared that he may move away.

“I have no strength left,” Faramir continued his voice laced with desperation, “I am tired, Legolas, so tired, my head aches constantly, and nightmares plague my sleep everyday.”

“Oh Faramir,” Leoglas sighed softly, putting out a hand and touching the other’s shoulder with it, relieved when he did not move away from the touch, “you are tired for you do not rest. Your headaches come from overwork and lack of sleep. As for your nightmares, I know not what cause them but I can guess.”

He put his arm around the shaking shoulder of the man and pulled his head close to his chest. “And if I can do anything to drive away those nightmares I will,” he said resting his cheek against the soft hair of the other’s head. Faramir sighed into his shoulder.

“Anything, I will not see you suffer any more. I love you.”

“No, don’t say that, do not say you love me.” He could feel the wetness of the other’s tears seeping into his clothes.

“Why my love, why not?”

“Do not, for all who say so, leave me. Do not leave me,” he sobbed.

“I will never leave you,” Legolas promised him.

*No, it is you who will leave me for you are mortal, and then I will go to the undying lands in sorrow, * he thought sadly.

“I will always be here, and you will never be hurt again, never again.”

Faramir looked up, interlocking his eyes with the elf’s blue orbs, and stared back silently, taking in the love he saw shining out pure and unadulterated. His heart grew light as he realised that Legolas was not looking at him with scorn but with love.

Legolas looked into the grey eyes, and he felt once again the strange constriction in his heart. He could drown in those grey depths. Smiling down at Faramir, he hugged him tight; and realized belatedly that the man seemed cold, seeing that he was protected only by thin cloth.

“You are cold, let us go inside,” he said, taking off his cloak and wrapping him in it. He led Faramir back towards the building, still quiet and peaceful. He doubted if anyone other than a few servants would be seen around till evening. His own room was nearby, as he wanted to be near the trees in the garden.

“Come, I will take you back to your room.”

“Can I not stay here awhile? The trees soothe my heart,” Faramir said wearily.

“No, it is cold. But if you like, you can stay in my chambers, for my balcony overlooks this garden,” he led the weary man inside, and then steered him towards a cushioned chair in the balcony. He lightly kneaded the taut muscles on the other’s shoulder and back, until the man slumped limply against him.

“Stay here,” he said lowering him onto the cushions, “you seem to be hurting still, I will get you some herbs to dull it.”

When he returned Faramir was sprawled out on the chair, eyes closed, breathing evened out, and the look on his sleeping visage was one of a man at ease with himself. Legolas smiled, and stooping down, picked up the sleeping man, and carried him inside, laid him upon the bed, near the open window through which floated in the smells and sounds of the garden. He covered him up, smoothed a few stray hairs away, and lightly brushed the lips with his own, before laying himself down on the other side. Softly, he hummed the strains of an old elvish ballad of true love, smiling as Faramir’s mouth curved in a small smile in his sleep, as the lilting voice reached through to his subconscious mind.

Chapter 6

When Legolas awoke a few hours later, the sun was up and the steward was sitting on a chair by his bed watching him, a slight hint of apprehension in his face. Their eyes locked and he smiled lovingly at the young man, who in turn relaxed visibly. Any sign of worry or fear left his face, and he smiled back, a genuine smile from deep within. He arose from his chair, and sat by Legolas on the bed, and placed a finger on the topmost binding of his tunic. Legolas stared at him incredulously, as he uncurled it with his finger, and began pulling it out, exposing the V of his throat and torso.

“Faramir!” Legolas rasped out as the steward ran his finger lightly across his exposed skin, setting up a tingling feeling. He moaned at the touch, and licked at his dry lips in anticipation. More bindings came off, and soon his chest was exposed to the cool, fresh air blowing in from outside. Faramir lightly ran a hand over his torso, exclaiming at the smoothness of the fair skin.

“You are beautiful,” he gasped at the elf. He grasped at his leggings, and then looked to the elf’s eyes as if seeking permission. Legolas nodded, and lifted himself up slightly as Faramir pulled them off. Faramir stared at him and repeated huskily, “So beautiful.”

Bending down, he began to kiss Legolas all over his body. He nipped playfully at the pointed ears, licked his cheek, showered kisses on his neck and then licked at his throat. Legolas simply sighed in pleasure, and lay limp and unresisting under the other’s ministrations. The man sucked at his nipples, tugging them lightly, causing him to moan loudly, a kiss on his navel made him smile, and then the hand wrapped around his shaft sent another cry out of his throat. Faramir rubbed his hands up and down it, causing Legolas to cry out again. Faramir took him in his mouth, uncertainly at first but when Legolas voiced his pleasure, he set at it with gusto and for the next few minutes Legolas was in a state of rapture he had not experienced in a very long time.

He grabbed Faramir’s shoulders and gripped them tightly shuddering all along, his body reacting with joy to the caresses and kisses of his lover. He came screaming out the steward’s name over and over again.

“Faramir!”

When it was over they lay in each other’s arms.

Legolas kissed Faramir lightly on his lips, “You were wonderful.”

Faramir smiled shyly, “Will you not return the pleasure?”

Legolas grinned broadly, and reached for the young man’s robe to pull it off. Faramir stopped him, “Will you make love to me as you did last night?” he asked. Seeing the apprehension in the elf’s eyes, he explained, “I did want it, but - but - I was not sure you did. Will you make love to me again, so I can feel that wonderful feeling again?”

Legolas shook his head, “Not as last night, I was too rough. You are still hurt. We must wait till you have recovered. And then I will be gentle.”

“I like you rough,” Faramir teased, “My big bad elf.”

“My little human,” Legolas teased back, as he pulled Faramir’s robe off. Roving his eyes over the now naked body, he amended it, “My beautiful little human.”

“You are so lovely,” he gasped, as Faramir flushed under his scrutiny, “I could stare at you forever,” he whispered huskily, as he began kissing him. Faramir moaned at the tender touch, squealing in delight when nipped at his neck. He was ticklish and Legolas soon realised that and every now and then gave the young man a small tickle that would set him off giggling, and would arouse the elf even further.

“Please,” Faramir finally groaned unable to hold back any longer. So Legolas took him in his mouth and gave Faramir the undiluted pleasure he himself had just experienced.

“I love you,” Faramir whispered as they lay entwined around each other a few minutes later.

“And I love you,” Legolas replied, holding him closer.

---

The wind blew through the thick blades of grass in a tiny glade on the banks of the Anduin, where a man and an elf stood together by the river’s edge. The man was cleaning himself up by the river.

“A human who keeps clean!” Legolas sighed in pleasure, “I thought the like never existed.”

Faramir smiled, “Do you like Ithilien so far, my prince?”

“I certainly do. My people will be happy here.”

“I am glad,” Faramir whispered softly.

It was two days after they had professed their love for each other. They had ridden down to Ithilien so Legolas could see the area where the proposed elven colony in Ithilien was to come up. He had been overjoyed when Faramir had received Ithilien as his princedom - now they would be in such close proximity.

They had stopped for a rest in a small clearing by the river. Faramir had fallen slightly ill after his exposure to the cold and had spent an entire day in bed, with Legolas hovering nearby and making hidden, lewd gestures that had made him laugh and anyone else in the room, give him puzzled glances. The others had seemed pleasantly surprised to see the cordiality with which Legolas now treated the steward but said nothing else. If the healers thought anything of the bruises and even more so of the love bites all over their steward’s body, they had said little. Aragorn however had muttered something about dwarven ales, and the healers had tried hard to hide their smiles for they knew the night of drunken revelry had affected many the same way. A day later, Faramir had insisted he needed the fresh refreshing air of Ithilien, and that he was just a little out of sorts, so the pre-appointed ride for Ithilien had not been cancelled.

Faramir went to lie down for a while on the grassy bank, while Legolas cleaned himself up. When Legolas turned round he found the steward completely naked on the grass lying on his side, and smiling at him. He cocked up an eye and came and sat down by him, gulping at the sight of his lover’s beautifully sculpted body.

“Faramir, put your clothes back on, you will aggravate your cold,” he admonished picking up the other’s clothes.

Faramir reached a hand out and stopped him. Sitting up, he grabbed both his hands and said, “Make love to me, Legolas, here, for when we return there is always a constant stream of visitors in both our rooms. Make love to me now.”

Legolas looked into the pleading grey eyes and succumbed promptly. Faramir was right. Unless the entire citadel was recovering from a drunken orgy, they would not give them a moment’s piece. Always, people trooped in and out of either’s room.

“Wait,” he said lovingly. Walking over to a tree nearby, he knelt and gently plucked at a few stems from a plant growing wild. He squeezed them, allowing a clear oil to flow out and then seated by his lover rubbed it into him. Then he slid his finger in widening it, lovingly and slowly, eyes always on the man so he’d know if he was hurting him. But all that was visible on the young face was pure joy and contentment as he entered him, and they were soon in the throes of passion.

They rode back in a companionable silence.

“If Gimli does not leave your room soon enough tonight can I come and knock him out, Faramir asked suddenly.

Legolas burst out laughing, “Can we not slip a sleeping draught into his food?”

Faramir shrugged, “Or we could cart out the remaining crates of dwarven ale and have a party. In an hour’s time they’ll be too drunk and you and I can slip out, and spend all of tonight and the whole of tomorrow together. I’m sure we’ll be able to think of something to do.” He said slyly, grinning at the elf.

Their laughter echoed through the dales as they raced off towards the White City.

THE END

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