Faramir Fiction Archive

Evermore (NC-17)

Written by Geale

09 January 2012 | 9006 words

Summary: “It was a cruel thing. For so long had they laboured and through so much blood had they waded, and Legolas had longed only for the moment when he knew that Aragorn was finally safe and that the threat to their happiness was eradicated. But here was Faramir of Gondor, and he destroyed everything. And yet Legolas could not find it in himself to hate him.”
Pairing: Faramir/Aragorn/Legolas
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Slash. Threesome (double penetration) and above mentioned males in assorted combinations.
Genres: Lots of romance and just the tiniest, tiniest, tiniest pinch of angst.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to J.R.R. Tolkien.
A/N: By Eru have I grown romantic of late! This is a multiple POV story that I really did try to write as tastefully as possible.

Quick Sindarin course:

Goheno nín: Forgive me
Mae govannen: Well met
meleth nín: my love
adan: (hu)man

Do enjoy!

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Evermore

He always makes an effort to be punctual. It is, in his opinion, only courteous and well-mannered to arrive on time when you are expected somewhere. So, he spurs his mare on, knowing full well that he is pushing the beast towards her limit, but hopes that she will forgive him. For tonight Faramir son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor by inheritance, and Prince of Ithilien by some whim of the King’s, is late.

“Goheno nín,” he pleads with her, but she gives only a toss of her proud white head in return. But she does not throw him off.

A patchwork of capricious winter snow covers the ground and the wild track he is following is treacherous where the cold came to freeze it, then receded, and then froze it again swiftly. He follows the stream that meanders through the woods for it glints merrily in the half-light and sings still beneath a sheen of cracked ice. Even Faramir can find his way then, and even when ahorse.

It troubles him just a little that he should not know his own land any more. But with the coming of the Elves out of Mirkwood – now Eryn Lasgalen – and the founding of a new city of the Eldar in the south, the trees seem to have had a change in temper. And so also the waters and the winds, for they seem to have twisted around somehow, and lie and bend and go not at all in their proper directions. But Faramir cannot deny that Ithilien, ever beautiful, is now simply breathtaking.

Though that will not help him now – now that dusk is falling quickly and the shadows of the trees begin to stretch. He is glad of his thick woollen cloak and his gloves but would be gladder of a fire and a hot meal. And it would ease him to know that they are waiting for him, though his faithless mind constantly whispers to his hopeful heart that it will prove not to be so, but that they will have waisted no time. And that he shall find them without care for his fears.

“It grows late.”

Aragorn is standing by the window and he watches as the first stars prick the deepening blue above the treetops. Oak and alder and hazel grow strong here, and there is a grove of willows down by the stream, in that place where it broadens and is cloven into two, that he particularly likes. But in this moment he could not be less interested in growing things.

“He will come.” The voice of Legolas is deliberately soft, he knows, so that it might wrap around his worry and stay it, and soothe him.

“But he is never late. Never once since he took up his father’s office has he been late.” Aragorn turns away from the window to look at his friend. His lover. His companion. “Never.”

The son of Thranduil is a spill of moonlight on the open floor. He is a Lord in his own right now, though his father still rules as King in Mirkwood.

Eryn Lasgalen, Aragorn must remind himself. He should be accustomed by now to places whose names change and readily learn the new name, but this one is especially tricky. For he cannot remember a time when he did not love Legolas of Mirkwood.

“He has a good horse, Aragorn,” says Legolas. “She will bear him hither and let no harm come to him.”

“You should know.”

“Aye, I do.” Legolas walks up to him, and comes to stand before him in that way of his: he does not touch, does not speak, but only looks at you until your heart forgets how to beat.

“You picked her out,” Aragorn hears himself say, somewhat grudgingly, as though he were a child that would not admit defeat in a game of knowledge.

“I did.”

The sitting room is quiet and it would be easy to imagine that they are the only beings left in Arda. But that is folly for little more than two hundred of Legolas’ kin made the journey with him to Ithilien and his dwelling is a place made out of laughter and music and much joy. But tonight, Aragorn has no thought to spare any of this. Even as he moves into Legolas’ open arms and comes to rest his head on his shoulder, Aragorn’s worry twists into a heavy knot in the very pit of his stomach.

It is sometime later – Faramir has given up his attempts at keeping track of time – that the house of Legolas the Elf, and one of the Nine of the Fellowship, comes into view. First you see the glow of the lights seeping through the trees and skating off the snow-crusted twigs. Then the path widens and flows smoothly under an archway braided out of living branches, and then you see the house.

Legolas has delved no cave in the ground, as is his father’s wont, but raised his walls among the trees. Even in bright daylight it is impossible to tell which parts of the house that did not stand there four moons ago. Or even one.

As he makes it into the courtyard there is movement among the lights and the shadows and he has no more swung out of the saddle before an elf in deep forest green hastens towards him, soundlessly, and with her feet barely touching the ground. Legolas does not discriminate, Faramir has understood, and will allow male or female to perform any task that is to their liking.

She is radiant, this one, with her golden hair spilling down her back; and she smiles and greets him: “Mae govannen, Faramir. You are expected.”

He inclines his head, and wishes dearly that his movements were as graceful as his King’s. Aragorn Elessar, he sometimes thinks, should have been born an Elf and not a Man; and the King knows the blessings and the greetings, and all the befitting words of parting, and every gesture and when to speak or to smile, or be silent. Faramir studies him when he can and tries to check his own actions and replies but it is a hard and wearisome labour.

With a twinge of guilt, Faramir lifts a gloved hand and strokes his mare’s silvery mane but she will not be appeased so easily. “I drove her hard,” he admits.

But the elf only laughs. “But not too hard. She knows you were impatient.” She takes the reins from him and tactfully does not comment on the darkening of his cheeks. “My Lord Legolas and the King await you in my Lord’s chambers,” she says. “Your things will be brought to you.”

Faramir mumbles his gratitude even as his insides squirm. He does not remember ever making a conscious decision regarding the public nature of his relationship with his King.

And Legolas, he silently adds as his horse is led away and he is left alone, his eyes travelling upwards and over the slender columns of twined branches and gracefully arched doorways. Legolas the Elf, the King’s lover.

It is as though he were melting into a pool of relief. He stands with Legolas’ chest pressed to his back and his lover’s arms are wrapped around his waist. They are watching the scene below, and the starlight glimmers in Faramir’s hair and in the glow of the lanterns, his cheeks are flushed. He is beautiful.

“Did I not tell you so?” says Legolas, softly. His warm breath sifts over Aragorn’s temple.

“Yes, I suppose you did.” He is calm now, so very calm. “You were right. You are always right.”

Legolas’ laughter is low and comforting. “Not always… But often enough for you to stop contending with me constantly.”

Aragorn attempts to shove an elbow into his ribs but fails utterly when warm lips brush his cheek. “I do not constantly contend with you.”

“No?”

“No,” says Aragorn firmly.

Legolas makes a sound that could just as well be rebellion as it could be consent.

Faramir climbs the broad flight of steps with increasing unease. He should be running, he reflects, into Aragorn’s arms, but he cannot force his feet to move any faster. He is soiled and his cloak is damp, and his hair must be a tangled mess.

Despite the season, there are blooming flowers in vases and urns placed on low tables and on the floor: winter roses and holly blossoms; and though he knows it could not be so, the scent of summer still seems to linger here. He looks down and his garb appears to him ragged and dull and filthy, and suddenly he wishes that he had never come. He would have been better off in his own home, with a book and a fire, and no challenges.

For he is certain now of what he will walk in on. He is certain that when he lifts aside the curtain that separates Legolas’ bedchamber from his sitting room, he will see them on the bed, locked together in an embrace that will strike him as so awesomely stunning and arousing, but also like a blow to his belly. Still, his feet will not heed his silent pleas and they steer him uncompromisingly towards the door that he now so fears.

His throat is dry as he watches how his hand descends upon the wood, and he is sure he does not breathe as he waits.

Legolas has just lifted the goblets when the sound echoes through the room. He smiles. “You shall have to open for him.”

But because it is Legolas, and because his heart is now so light with relief in his breast, Aragorn shakes his head in feigned disbelief. “I am the King and this is your house. And yet you send me to do the work?” It is with a show of mighty displeasure that he rises from his seat to cross the floor.

“Only because you love to do all the work,” counters Legolas, with a twinkle in his eye.

Aragorn grunts a reply but then he lays his hand on the door and opens it.

And Faramir’s world is full of wonders for here is the King, with a smile meant only for him, and still very much dressed. And Aragorn’s eyes are rain and dew and silver starlight as he looks upon Faramir, and does not hesitate to wrap an arm around his waist and pull him close to kiss him.

Faramir moulds against him in an instant; halfway through the door he parts his lips and Aragorn’s tongue comes questing to his mouth and there is no salty taste of release or sweat to be found in his kiss. They draw apart at last, and Faramir feels his cheeks sting as a very welcome heat slithers through him.

“I was afraid you had lost your way,” says Aragorn, as he pulls Faramir into the sitting room by his waist. The door slides closed behind them with a muted sigh.

“I set out too late. After I had settled a fishermen’s quarrel.” Faramir shakes his head. “For quite a while they would not hear each other, nor me, and even the threat of the King’s wrath would not subdue them.”

Aragorn’s fingers are busy with the clasp of his cloak. “Fish, you say?”

“Yes. Such as can be found in lakes and streams? One eats them.”

His King’s brows rise but his lips twitch into a new smile. “He is learning impertinence from you, Legolas.”

Legolas son of Thranduil does not reply. The slender goblets are cool in his hands and the pale summerwine sparkles in the light of the lamps. It is his favoured drink, the one which he greatly prefers over the heavy ale of Men and Dwarves and even the lighter ones of the Hobbit lands. The wine is clear as water but golden as sunrise.

He watches them greet each other, faces scant inches apart, with smiles and significant looks, and traded kisses, and hands. Their hands move so quickly, so eagerly, over wool and leather and linen – as though they were in a hurry. And he supposes that in a way they are, too, for even though blessed with the ancient blood of Númenor, and in that respect still young, the day will come too soon when Aragorn and Faramir will have to part for a time.

He lets them do as they wish for a while, until Faramir is freed from his cloak and his leather jerkin, and his woollen tunic and Manwë knows what else Men need to don before setting out on winter nights. Then he lets them kiss again and it easy, too easy almost, to note how desperate Aragorn is, how deep his longing runs, and how very much he would like to bury himself in Faramir’s heat in this very moment, and stay there until the world is ended.

But when the kiss dwindles into a mere meeting of lips, he quietly walks up to them. He can sense haste and desire in Aragorn, but Faramir’s energy is gentler, more composed. He comes to stand by Aragorn’s elbow.

“Faramir.”

The younger man’s eyes race to his face and they fill with embarrassment and yet unworded apologies. They are blue. Lighter than Legolas’ but wise whenever Faramir does not give in to insecurity or self-doubt. “Legolas,” he begins, and he has trouble finding his voice, it seems, “forgive me, I…”

But Legolas stays him with the smallest shake of his head. “You are welcome in my house.” He leans in and brushes their mouths together in a first kiss of renewed acquaintance.

Legolas is luminous. Faramir remembers Aragorn once saying that he is his moon, his very own piece of Ithil come to earth. It is easy to see what he means. Legolas’ tunic glimmers of silver and the palest blue, the needlework so exquisite that it looks like water flowing. His hair is tied back from his face but Faramir knows that it is soft to the touch, and that it never seems to tangle or smell of anything but air.

His kisses are soft, too, and always fuelled by some intent or other. Whether just to please, or to arouse; or explore or soothe, there is always a meaning to be found in their depths. When Legolas kisses him, Faramir could easily pretend that he is a cloud floating on the morning breeze.

He is relieved now that Legolas has come to greet him, and that the elf appears not be upset with him. For there is still a small part of Faramir that, if not fears, then respects the elf in a way that makes it hard for him to always approach him with ease, even after they have lain together.

It has only been half a year, he must remind himself at times. Eight moons ago, Legolas dwelt still in his father’s realm and the reign of Elessar Telcontar was just beginning to take shape. And Faramir had found himself hopelessly and irrevocably in love with his King. In that hour, when he truly came to understand what had befallen him, he had lost every sense of direction, and had been more than ready to depart Minas Tirith and never set foot there again.

But then things had changed.

Aragorn watches them with baited breath. He tells himself at times that he is no longer worried that Legolas shall spurn him or accuse him of spoiling their love by dragging another into the equation. But he is always relieved when he is proven right, too.

Faramir’s eyes are wide when Legolas offers him the wine, and they shine with things unsaid. But he remains silent as he lifts the goblet to his lips to take a first sip. Aragorn relaxes his stance a little and only now does he discover that his arm is still tightly wound around Faramir’s waist. Perhaps he means to withdraw but that never happens.

Instead, Legolas smiles, and in an instant the mood is quite changed. “I am never impertinent, Estel,” he says, before he, too, tastes the wine. “Oh, there is some for you too but you shall have to fetch it yourself.”

It is impossible to be angry with him, Aragorn learned early on. And how could he even pretend to be, when Faramir’s grin lights up the settling night?

They make it to the bedchamber slowly, little by little, step by step. Before they can let the night enfold them there are matters that need to be discussed, however tedious, and tales that need to be told. Legolas sends for bread and hard cheese, and there are dried berries also, and Faramir is served lentil soup with thick cream until he begs for an end to it.

He sits back in his chair and is grateful for the cushions and the warmth around him. He can see no fire and the candles should be too few to keep the cold night air at bay, and especially in a house like this where a wall could just as well be a screen of interwoven branches, could be a curtain. Yet, he is perfectly comfortable, and there is no wind.

Aragorn has been telling them of the Tower of Ecthelion and how he one morning discovered a crack in its foundations, and that now the entire Tower Guard fears it. Legolas laughs at this.

“So when will it fall?” he asks, with merriment in his voice.

“It will not fall,” says Aragorn, decisively. “Nor will it crumble or tear apart when the storms batter it. And there will be no crushing it by the snows. And no eagle’s nest shall topple it and–”

“My, my!” Legolas is all amusement. “That is certainly a rant you have performed before.” He stoops to lift Aragorn’s plate off his knees and return it to the table. Then he slides into the chair next to the King, and he is slender and lithe enough to manage an apparently comfortable position.

Aragorn curls an arm around his shoulders and brings him close. But he speaks in a grumble, “The Guard has proven to harbour the oddest notions and superstitions.”

Faramir knows the weight of Legolas’ legs, and the feel of his silky skin; all the memories come back to him as he watches Aragorn’s fingertips trace an invisible pattern on the back of the elf’s hand. He makes himself speak, however: “‘Tis not so strange, I think. The reign of the Stewards faltered – was weakened over the course of many long years – but always would Ecthelion’s Tower stand in opposition to Barad-dûr. Like a monument of defiance, against the dark terrors of Mordor.”

Aragorn inclines his head, but he does heave a small sigh of annoyance. “Yes, it is so… I guess. But to think that its falling apart – should it come to that; though however that would happen is beyond my understanding – will mean the ruin of Gondor as well…” He abandons Legolas’ hand and spreads his own. “Come! ‘Tis only a structure. It is but mortar and stone!”

There was a time, and not so long ago, when Faramir would have quailed at such obvious irritation in his King and overlord. When he himself had only meant to explain or please, or enlighten. But though the urge to clarify his position and humble himself is still strong in him, he stands his ground and forces himself to hold Aragorn’s grey gaze. “And a symbol,” he says, and is pleased that his voice is steady. “And as such it gives the people of Gondor confidence, and hope.”

“Not so very unlike yourself, then, meleth nín,” says Legolas, and he tilts his head to press a kiss to Aragorn’s stubbly cheek.

But Aragorn will have none of it. Not yet. And he snorts. “Do not compare me to a tower, Legolas.”

But Legolas only smiles and his eyes narrow, “Oh, but you are not so different… at times.” One of his hands comes alive and he suggestively brushes it over Aragorn’s groin. “Proud… strong, hard, erect… reaching upwards…”

And with that, Faramir knows that the time for the telling of news is come to an end.

Aragorn catches Legolas’ hand in his and for a heartbeat he is so very aware of the significance of this moment. For a while longer he can choose to ignore the building heat between them and instead carry on complaining about the foolishness of the Guards – for really, he does not support their beliefs – or he can acknowledge the way Legolas is pressing against him, and the effect that his breath, light on his neck, has on him. He can choose to give Faramir just a little more time, or he can test the younger man’s strength and courage now.

Ah, but he is done with patience and suspension. And Legolas knows it, too. Which someday, Aragorn suspects, will be his downfall. Although the idea is rather more appealing than frightening.

Therefore, when he has caught his lover’s hand, he hesitates for only a flicker of a moment before he brings it back to his groin to press against his wakening length.

They have played this game a hundred, or a thousand, times before, but usually they were alone. And in those times when privacy was an unattainable dream – such as the days they spent on the Quest – they would play in silence, guided by looks and gestures and smiles, and glares. It is only of late that they have learnt how to accommodate a third party. And it is all Aragorn’s fault, for suddenly forgetting how to resist.

He recalls their first kiss. Not his and Legolas’, but his and Faramir’s. It was daytime, and summer, but Minas Tirith was cowering under a canopy of imperturbable grey, and it could just as well have been late autumn.

Faramir had just returned from a scouting and for once he was clad in mail and armour, and upon his breastplate gleamed the White Tree of Gondor, and a sword hung at his side. It was altogether such an unusual sight that it took Aragorn a moment or two to connect this shining soldier to his dusty Steward who was normally to be found in some forgotten cavern of the library.

But the radiant creature had spoken with Faramir’s well-measured tones, and possessed his dignity and gracious conduct, and had looked like him, too, once his helmet had been discarded, and so there was really nothing else for Aragorn to do than come to the conclusion that they were indeed one and the same.

Now, it would be untrue to claim that he had not, once or twice before this incident, looked upon his Steward with some interest. And he had taken to pondering how he was to break through the barriers that seemed to surround him, and form a friendship with him. Or worse, investigate whether the younger man would be willing to consent to something that lay beyond a friendly sharing of a plate of roast mutton. But he had always stayed himself halfway for several reasons. And Legolas was one of them.

But, in that moment, when Faramir appeared before him encased in glimmering silver and had spoken something of the outer defences of Osgiliath and the spoiling of the River, Aragorn found himself moving towards him with some determination. A soldier, he figured afterwards that his mind must have told him, was less likely to break than a sun-deprived scholar. And he had taken Faramir by surprise, to say the least, when he marched right up to him, cupped the back of his head with a firm hand, and pressed a kiss to his lips.

In the end they had needed Mablung to tell the King of the extent of the damage that had been done to the ancient capital of Gondor, for when the kiss was ended, it seemed as though Faramir had forgotten all about low-set walls and drawbridges.

Aragorn smiles, now, at the memory, and into Legolas’ kiss. His elf’s tongue is inquisitive as it seeks to call him back to the present and discover what it might be that drew him back into the past. Aragorn has ever failed to hide anything from him and when they pull apart, Legolas’ eyes are knowing.

It is true that he knew no joy when Aragorn told him. He sat there, the mortal, shrunken in despair and defeat, and there were tears in his eyes and on his cheeks. Legolas had stood before him, silent as a statue, he knew, and equally cold to look upon.

Never… Never in seventy years had Aragorn’s eyes strayed. Never had his heart been anyone else’s property but Legolas’. And now, all of a sudden, out of some broken kingdom doomed to rot in the folds of time, stepped another man, another mortal, glowing like a sunset, and sweet and fair and gentle. And Aragorn loved him.

It was a cruel thing. For so long had they laboured and through so much blood had they waded, and Legolas had longed only for the moment when he knew that Aragorn was finally safe and that the threat to their happiness was eradicated.

But here was Faramir of Gondor, and he destroyed everything. And yet Legolas could not find it in himself to hate him.

Faramir wonders if they know what a beautiful couple they make where they stand on the threshold to Legolas’ bedchamber. Aragorn is loosening the elven braids, his calloused fingers weaving through the blond tresses, and Legolas’ hands are busy with the King’s belt. Their mouths join time and time again, in little, nibbling kisses that are sometimes teasing, sometimes reassuring, sometimes playful.

He hangs back, yet uncertain of what his role will be this night. He doubts himself, he knows this, but often seems unable to do anything else. Intellectually he knows that he is handsome, or at least not plain, but he finds it difficult to use this knowledge to his advantage or benefit.

He tugs at the sleeve of his shirt and he notes that the rusty colour is fading and that one of the seams is breaking apart. He never cared much for fancy attire or polished boots, but he ought to have dressed better for this night. His brother certainly would have, although it would not have been two males kissing in the doorway, then.

He swallows down his nervousness and takes a step forward. They will not notice him, will not remember him, his mind is quick to tell him. He could just as well slip out the door, fetch his horse and be off, and his King and his lover would be none the wiser.

But he remains where he is, and he watches how Legolas lets Aragorn’s belt slide through his fingers and fall to the floor. And the elf shakes out his hair and allows Aragorn to unlace his tunic.

Aragorn kisses his way down Legolas’ bared chest, all the way from the base of his throat, past his heart, and, coming down on bended knee, down to his navel. Legolas gently strokes the dark hair and Aragorn kisses the growing bulge in his lover’s leggings.

And despite himself, Faramir is aroused. He knows what it is to have Aragorn’s hungry lips pressing against you, having him kiss you until your very bones melt. He knows how warm and wet Aragorn’s mouth is when it envelops you and makes you harder than you have ever been before, and how it can make you writhe.

He is fingering the waistband of Legolas’ leggings now and testing it. All the while his cheek or his lips lie against the elf’s groin, and then, in one swift move, he pushes the shield of fabric down past slim hips and Legolas is revealed.

It does not surprise Faramir that he is hard – anyone would be after such a treatment – and he envies the elf as his King smiles contentedly. But then the path that they are following suddenly twists and turns, and Faramir sees Aragorn swiftly getting to his feet and Legolas’ pale eyebrows rise in amusement and slight surprise.

It takes Faramir a moment to comprehend that it is towards him that Aragorn is moving. The King’s hair is tousled and his shirt hangs loose about him, but his eyes are shining and his smile is bright. He reaches out and takes Faramir by the hand, and pulls him out of his trance, and closer. “Come,” he says. “I will not have you fleeing.”

Perhaps he knows more than Faramir would like him to for his grasp is firm and persuasive. He pulls Faramir with him and only Legolas can look so at ease, leaning against the door frame with his tunic open and his leggings pooling around his ankles, and with his length jutting out before him. The elf’s eyes rake over them both appraisingly. “Bed?”

“Bed,” confirms Aragorn.

It is too easy to slip into old roles, Aragorn reflects as he comes to stand by the sea of soft feather pillows and blankets that is Legolas’ low bed. He is too used to one lover and sometimes forgets just how smoothly his and Legolas’ wills and wishes blend together. But Faramir, he knows and should remember, is not so confident of his part in this adventure.

He guides the younger man before him, with his hands on his hips, while Legolas, finally freed from his clothing, lights a handful of candles. Aragorn leans in and Faramir’s copper locks tease his lips and he kisses them. And then Faramir is turning in his arms and shyly instigates a kiss that makes his heart melt.

Faramir knows how to make love. He knows when to give and when to hold back, to listen or to give command (though he will do it quietly), and he has been told before that his skills are impressive. But when he first lay with Aragorn he was nervous. And when he met Legolas, he was genuinely afraid.

He stands by the bed now, in Aragorn’s arms. The bedchamber is blessedly warm and the candlelight drenches the pale wood around him in different shades of gold. He takes a moment to wonder at the shapes of leaves carved into the walls, and he recognises the weeping hazel tree peeking through the structure from across the room. He has only been here once before, and then he was so intimidated by the beauty of the house, and of its Lord, that he failed to notice many details.

But Aragorn did not bring him here to admire architecture and Legolas is already sprawled on the bed and waiting. Faramir smiles as his King quickly conquers his belt and nudges him to raise his arms.

“Better,” Aragorn concludes as he maps the plains of Faramir’s chest and belly with his palms.

The hairs on Faramir’s arms stand on end as Aragorn leaves a string of kisses to melt into his skin, just beneath his collarbone. Aragorn’s breath is warm and his stubble tickles Faramir’s skin, and the Steward wants more. He takes a step closer, comes as close as he might, and tentatively fingers the hem of Aragorn’s shirt. “Take it off?” he suggests.

Aragorn lets him. The King’s chest is broad and dusted with dark hair, and his arms are muscled. Faramir bows his head and leaves a kiss only half an inch above one of Aragorn’s nipples. He means to go slow and is therefore utterly unprepared for Aragorn’s growl and the way hands land on either side of his head to make him test his courage.

Thus pushed against his bonds, Faramir steels himself and, with his nose and chin rasping against warm skin, dips his head just a little lower and grazes his teeth over Aragorn’s nipple.

From his position on the bed, Legolas watches in amused resignation. He too, has tried to teach Aragorn patience (though he is uncertain whether it is simply in Faramir’s nature to go slow or if he is actually attempting to show his King the pleasures of not-rushing-it) but has yet to succeed in this endeavour. Only after he has spent himself will Aragorn be open to sweet, lingering caresses or innocent kissing. Not that Legolas will complain. It is one of the joys of lying with Men to discover such unfettered passion and sudden bursting and exploding release. But he admits that it was with delight that he learned the softer and gentler desires of Faramir.

He ignores his own swollen length in favour of watching them. He can last till sunrise if he wishes – unlike Aragorn who will last for all the time it takes a Hobbit to finish a regular sized jug of ale – and has no need of pleasuring himself just yet. He admires the way the candlelight catches in Faramir’s hair, and the grace with which his slender body moves. And he shakes his head in disbelief when Aragorn impedes the smooth, slow rhythm of his hips by pushing against him in a frantic demand for more.

They are both naked now and fully aroused, and Faramir’s arms are wound around his King’s neck. Their kiss is deep and borders on some mortal edge of losing control. Legolas has followed Aragorn to it several times, if only out of curiosity, to peer down from the ridge. Or, as has happened on some occasions, to push Aragorn over, and be made to suffer the consequences when Aragorn’s release shot forth into him too soon, and he himself remained quite balanced of both mind and body.

For it is usually Aragorn who takes him. His adan was always eager and strong and full of life, and for some reason he needed to prove it. And Legolas would open himself up fully and welcome him. He still does. And he enjoys it as much as he ever did, though he does rejoice when Aragorn for a moment fails to pay attention and suddenly finds himself being stretched and claimed.

And that is why he cannot tear his eyes away from the Men still standing, still moving against each other, and breathing heavily. Because Legolas suspects that in Faramir there is a power residing: one that, with a clever nudge in the right direction, just might grow strong enough to match Aragorn’s. Legolas is quite certain that would make for a wondrous future.

In between kisses, Faramir barely has time to draw breath. Aragorn’s fingers are restless upon his skin and they keep returning to the crease between his buttocks, and it is plain what he desires. Faramir has widened his stance already and his length is pounding where is rubs against Aragorn’s. His tongue slides against his King’s but must pull back when teeth make to graze his lower lip; and then Aragorn sucks on it, hard. He moans at the sensation and Aragorn fingers the entrance to his body with renewed fervour, his hips bucking forwards. Faramir loses himself in the heat that is lapping at him and he tweaks one of Aragorn’s nipples and makes the King groan. Aragorn’s hands spring back and he grabs Faramir by the waist and shamelessly ruts against him. He is so hard, so aching – they both are – and Faramir’s mind is set swirling.

Then suddenly he starts, for slick, warm fingers are pushing apart his buttocks, and soon a curious fingertip is exploring his opening anew. But both of Aragorn’s hands are on his hips, holding him steady, and Faramir dizzily comes to the conclusion that Legolas must have taken pity on them. The elf tests the guardian muscle and Faramir rocks back to meet him, impaling himself on one well-oiled finger.

His knees nearly give way. Aragorn’s mouth is on his throat, biting its way down to his shoulder. With a string of moans spilling from his lips, Faramir clings to him as Legolas eases the first finger inside completely. He is burning now, wanting only to be filled, and he finds that right now it does not matter who it will be that finally takes him.

Legolas strokes him from within and he does it slowly and skilfully. And he is careful. Very much so, even for him. Emboldened by Aragorn’s kisses, Faramir tries to rock back again and urge Legolas on but he is held too firmly and must accept that he is momentarily taken prisoner.

But he drops his head to Aragorn’s shoulder when Legolas curls his finger and brushes that blissfully sweet spot inside him. And he gasps against Aragorn’s over-heated skin and feels fingers dig into his hips.

Aragorn’s voice is hoarse when he speaks: “Love? All right?”

Faramir nods against him, and means to speak, too, but fails to form any coherent reply. Aragorn’s thick length is throbbing where is presses into his but he wants it somewhere else.

“Aragorn…?” Legolas’ beautiful voice, melodious even now, trails over his skin and Faramir shivers.

The King shifts his stance just a little and his mouth finds Faramir’s ear. What he murmurs makes the younger man nearly crumble at his feet: “Both of us?”

Faramir barely understands. He knows it can be done but he never thought he would ever try it. Indeed, the thought has never crossed his mind before, even though they have all tasted and had each other. He cannot imagine what it would be like and the very idea seems so extreme, and yet…

Legolas withdraws his finger and there is a moment in which Faramir feels only the void it leaves behind. It is but a brief wisp of time in a larger whole but it is enough for him to make up his mind. With his arms still curled around Aragorn’s neck he nods. “Yes,” he mumbles, and he circles his hips against Aragorn’s and is rewarded with a deep groan.

Legolas’ finger returns but now it is accompanied by a second. They push inside, and twist, and Faramir squirms in Aragorn’s embrace. His King has grown uncharacteristically quiet but his hold on Faramir does not waver. His kisses, however, grow gentler as Legolas continues to stretch Faramir, adding a third finger when the muscle has relaxed enough to admit them.

The floor under Faramir’s feet is swaying. He rocks against Aragorn in steady waves, his rhythm interrupted only by his own gasps and jerks as Legolas finds ways to trick him into the impending acceptance of something much bigger than three slender elven fingers. Aragorn’s kisses never cease to comfort him and that is what they do now also. He is aroused to the point of breaking, yes, and Aragorn is ready to burst, but they teeter on the edge and manage to not fall over.

Then into the blinding mist of aching and yearning and pounding slips a softer note and Faramir feels Legolas’ lips leave a cluster of kisses at the base of his spine, just above his crease. “Will you sit?”

The guide him down to settle in Legolas’ lap, on the very edge of the bed. Aragorn falls to his knees before them and helps them spread their legs wide. He is breathing heavily, the King, and when he sees them thus, he pinches the base of his risen flesh to keep from spilling himself all over Faramir’s groin. Legolas has planted his hands firmly in the mattress somewhere behind them and he too is breathing with some difficulty. Yet, his voice has not lost all its humour: “Leave yourself be a moment, Estel, and help him.”

Aragorn’s eyes are half-lidded and his lips red and swollen. But his grin makes Faramir’s blood sizzle. He edges a little closer so that he kneels between their thighs and he urges Faramir to hold on to him. “Legolas first,” he murmurs.

With muscles trembling, Faramir lifts himself up as much as he can manage and is grateful when Legolas is quick. Still he lets loose a long moan as his body is breached and the elf pushes into him. There, on the verge of breaking through something he did not even know existed, Faramir finds the strength to hold still for a crucial moment while his body adjusts. But then he can do no more and he sinks down, and Legolas’ warm gasp comes flooding his shoulder and Aragorn curses under his breath.

Faramir is not sure what he is holding on to when Legolas gives a first rock of his hips. He leans back against Legolas’ chest and feels the elf move inside him, and he smiles through the wave of pleasure that hits him. But his vision dims when he sees Aragorn give his own flesh a forceful stroke and he forgets to draw breath when the slick head of Aragorn’s member touches the base of Legolas’ arousal and his own opening.

It may be that Aragorn has lost all his wits. It may be that he has, in fact, succumbed to utter madness. But right now, in this hour and place, there is nothing in the world that he desires as much as sliding into Faramir, next to Legolas.

They did not discuss it beforehand, and he hopes Faramir realises that. If not, he shall tell him later. He will assure the Steward that this was not some scheme. But Legolas’ eyes were so blue, so darkened by desire, where he lay in the bed behind Faramir and though he likes to exhibit his control – yes, Aragorn sometimes wishes he could master himself so fully – it was plain to see that he was far from unaffected by what went on before him. Truthfully, Aragorn cannot say how it is that they are so connected – that it is possible for Legolas to know what he so deeply desires. But tonight, especially tonight, he is grateful for that bond.

Glancing up, he sees that Faramir is biting his lip. Aragorn smiles through the pounding of his body and admires this son of Gondor. But words of love shall be spoken later.

He guides himself closer and senses the quivering of Faramir’s muscles. Legolas’ length is not as thick as his own but large enough. With his free hand, with his index finger, Aragorn tests Faramir’s opening and is pleased when the muscle gives way. Faramir, though, jerks at the touch and on the tip of his length, hard and twitching on his belly, forms a drop of pearly white liquid.

Aragorn looks up at him again. His sunset. All copper and bronze, and with that light dusting of freckles on his shoulders. A sheen of sweat covers his skin now and he is shining in the candlelight. Though this time, there is no armour to be held accountable.

“Faramir?”

The younger man’s eyelashes flutter and he blinks his eyes open. With some effort, it seems.

“Look at me,” Aragorn commands him softly, and Faramir manages a nod.

Behind him – under him – Legolas rolls his hips again and though he trembles, Faramir’s blue eyes do not close. Thus satisfied, Aragorn smiles. Then he pushes.

The heat is all-consuming. He slides against Legolas into a blinding tightness that drives all air out of his lungs in a growl. Faramir’s raspy groan blends with his and from somewhere far away he can hear Legolas emit some kind of sound as well.

He thought he could handle this, thought he could guess what it would be like, but he was wrong. Faramir’s body clamps down around them and there is pressure of a kind that Aragorn could never have foreseen. Faramir is shaking, he knows, so very much, and Legolas’ length jerks helplessly against his. Aragorn’s world is reduced to a scorching darkness and a ragged song of desperate gasps and groans, and muscles that will not obey and words that make no sense.

Faramir feels everything but can do nothing for he has never known anything like this. He lost track of Aragorn’s gaze as soon as his King pushed into him, and in the blur of pleasure and pain combined he cannot find it again. But then, he is not sure he needs to. His arms, he is fairly certain, are locked around Aragorn’s neck yet again for he is half sobbing into it. He can sense how they try to match their thrusts but they are so big and take up so much space, and his body does not understand how to react.

Then one of them brushes that place deep within and he more feels than hears his cry tear through his throat. The rush of pleasure is maddening and he can bear no more… But he is given no choice for suddenly Aragorn’s hand descends upon his swollen length and Faramir is thrown into a whirlwind of blazing heat, and though Aragorn’s touch is deliberately light it becomes too much, and he feels himself coming.

This is too much for anyone to handle. Aragorn fights to keep his eyes open as Faramir’s inner muscles contract and his release overpowers him. With an enormous effort, Aragorn continues to rock into him, but he has lost dominion over his hips and any rhythm he meant to sustain. Faramir is shaking, crying, perhaps, but it is hard to tell. There is too much of everything and Aragorn wishes he could kiss him, and Legolas, too, whose head has fallen back and who is straining to maintain some kind of control. Faramir’s seed covers Aragorn’s hand but his length is still twitching and his body still working to handle every impulse.

He releases Faramir and his fingers dip lower, and he brushes the base of Legolas’ member, and the tightening sacs beneath it. A chant of less pretty words in elvish comes rolling towards him and Legolas pushes upwards, deeper into Faramir. But if Aragorn had meant to undo him he should have chosen a different tactic, for at the sensation of Legolas sliding against him anew, heat explodes within. And he knows not who is clinging to whom, but Faramir’s mouth against his is a blessing.

He sees them soar and fall and tumble, and rise again. He sees his beloved Men rush through this world at a mindless pace, and Legolas Thranduilion marvels at their commitment. And he envies them their fate.

For there will come a day – Vairë be good and push that hour as long into the future as she might – when they will both have stopped running. And Legolas will trace the curves of stone lips and stare into unseeing marble eyes and try to comprehend.

That will be the day when he builds himself a ship and finally seeks the Blessed Shores of his people beyond the sea. And he will be alone. But Aragorn and Faramir will find each other again, beyond the Halls of Mandos, and together they will know eternity.

But Legolas shall hold on to all the love he has ever known in their arms, and he will hold it safe. And he will fill his heart with it, and draw strength from it, and it will shine forever in Valinor.

Though that is not yet. And for this he is deeply thankful.

Faramir lies swathed in golden candlelight and simply tries to breathe. The bedclothes are white, like the sea under a cloud-covered sky. He is quite certain that he cannot feel his legs, or his arms, and his tongue has surely stopped working for no words will pass it.

Somewhere to his left lies Aragorn, and he is breathing too, which must be interpreted as a good sign. To his right, in his line of vision, Legolas lies on his back, his face clear but his eyes distant. His long hair spreads out around his head and his fine features seem to shimmer faintly in the half-light.

For once, Faramir’s eyes do not flee his face after their first brief check, but they linger on his cheekbone, his lips and his chin, as if he had set out with the aim to do an intense study. Not even when Legolas moves onto his side to face him does he shy away. He is too tired, perhaps, to summon the energy to flee.

The elf does not speak and he does not move, but his eyes lock with Faramir’s and they are… calm. Faramir cannot say for how long they lie like this, but it feels like being held in arms clad in the softest of linens.

Eventually Legolas stirs, but he does not retreat. Instead he lifts a hand to brush some of Faramir’s messy curls off his forehead, and his touch is light. A part of Faramir means to say something but Legolas’ blue eyes convince him otherwise and he remains silent. Then Legolas kisses him.

In some place far beyond comprehension, a flicker of light is born and Faramir feels the touch of it to his brow and his heart. He has never dared to love Legolas the Elf but in this moment it dawns on him that perhaps he was not so cowardly, but that it had not yet come to that. Legolas’ lips are warm and soft as they rest against his, and Faramir closes his eyes.

Aragorn tries to move soundlessly and sees no particular need for words. The weariness of his release is melting away from his limbs and he is already feeling quite restored. But he has no plan, indeed, he only seeks some closeness – for now, at least – but when he lifts his head and beholds his two lovers he is glad that he did not speak.

They lie not entwined. Not in any way are they touching, except for a gentle joining of mouths. It is not even a proper kiss, yet it is so tender that it breaks his heart in the most beautiful of ways. Legolas’ hand is resting between them and their eyes are closed. Aragorn does not know for how long he stays like this: immobile and only able to feel the deepest love.

“I love snow.”

Faramir turns his head to the side and arches an eyebrow at Legolas. The morning is bathing the elf in a whitish light that perfectly melts into his hair and bounces off the tangle of linen around his legs. “You do?”

“Mm.”

From somewhere on Faramir’s left comes a snort, and the mattress shifts as the King of Gondor rolls onto his side. “Only when he is not required to venture outdoors. There is little love in him, then, for harsh winds and sodden gloves.”

“You do me wrong, Aragorn.” protests Legolas. “For winds are not the same as snow, and poorly chosen garments are no faults of the snow’s.”

Faramir breaks in with a smile: “I will suffer no argument,” he says, speaking with a confidence that surprises himself, even. “I have heard one too many during the past moons, and know enough about you both to predict that neither of you will yield before nightfall.”

Aragorn chuckles as he props himself up on an elbow. He looks rested and his eyes are gleaming. “You heard the Steward, son of Thranduil. You had better be silent.”

“Me?” Legolas moves closer to Faramir, and drops a kiss to his shoulder. “I have nothing to do with your opinions, Aragorn, but merely expressed my appreciation of the weather.”

Through the veil of his hair, and the window yonder, Faramir can almost see the heavy snowflakes drifting idly towards the ground. “So you propose a walk later?” he says, with a tentative smile.

Legolas opens his mouth, and then closes it. On Faramir’s other side, Aragorn’s laugh is one of victory.

“You will be staying for three days, will you not?” says Legolas, ignoring the King.

Faramir nods against the pillows. It was as much as they could manage this time around; with the King in Minas Tirith and the Steward in Emyn Arnen, and the King’s lover – and his, his lover, he realises with a far from unpleasant twist of his stomach – in south Ithilien it is not always a simple matter finding the time to come together in peace. Their next meeting will be in the King’s Houses, beneath the Tower of Ecthelion, hopefully still intact, for the sake of the Tower Guard. That has already been decided.

“Well, then,” says Legolas, and he looks content. “There is no need for haste. We have forever.”

It is not entirely true, perhaps, but his kiss is so sweet, and Aragorn’s hand on his hip is so warm, that Faramir is almost prepared to believe it.

End

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