Faramir Fiction Archive

Hithlain (R)

Written by Empy

10 November 2011 | 1019 words

Title: Hithlain
Author: empy
Fandom: LotR FPF
Pairing: Aragorn/Faramir, the briefest of allusions to Aragorn/Boromir
Rating: PG-13 to R
Disclaimer: The characters belong to the Professor and his estate. No infringement is intended and no money made.
Warnings: none, unless a brief and passing element of bondage needs a warning.
Notes: Written as part of the 2011 Trick or Treat fic exchange at Sons of Gondor for recipient anorienparker. Thanks to littlemimm for the beta and the cheerleading, and to caras_galadhon and savageseraph for arranging the challenge. ♥!

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“Rope?” he asks, amused. “I would call it thoughtful were it not so strange a gift. Were you intending to teach me snare hunting? There is more than one spare bow kept here, should the hunting party find itself short of weapons.”

Aragorn looks at him, an answering smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “It is not mere rope, Faramir. It is rope such as the Elves of Lórien use. Hithlain.”

“I have heard tell of this,” he says, pulling off his gloves. The rope is cool and smooth in his hands, and the colour resembles the frost-matted grass of the plains that stretch wide outside the windows of the lodge. “Mist-thread,” he says, dredging up the word from the depths of his memory. With the word comes a memory not his own, of mist and chill and skin and flesh —

It ends as abruptly as it started.

Aragorn nods, apparently unaware of his unease. “Knots tied true will not come undone before it is needed, and it will not wear out even after long use.” He stretches his hand out to grasp the coil. “This rope has served me well for many years, and yet it bears no marks or flaws. It is soft as maiden’s hair but strong as a mooring line. Let me show you. Stretch your hands out,” he urges.

The rope slides over his skin like water, soft as silk. Easily the width of his thumb, but light as a feather.

As soon as the first knot is drawn tight, a haze sinks over his vision. There is a sudden incongruous flash of golden leaves and a single whispered word.

Kneel. He repeats it, feeling the word whisper-soft on his tongue.

Aragorn does just that, coiling the free end of the rope around his hand as he does so. “If you wish,” he says, but there is a note to his voice that betrays his confusion.

Faramir opens his mouth to ask what the strange sound echoing around the chamber is, when he realizes it fills his ears alone. A sound like wind through trees, like distant harps. Nothing like the autumn rain that he heard lash against the windows of the lodge a moment ago.

The rope around his wrists is fever-warm now, warming further as he feels slow languid lust thread through him. The sight of Aragorn on his knees is not unfamiliar to him, but thrills him just as much each time. So does the thought of their agreement: that titles hold no value when they are alone.

“What would you have me do?” asks Aragorn.

When he opens his mouth to reply, there is another jolt of memories not his own, and this time even his body feels strange.

The hair that obscures his vision when he bends his head is white like linen and far longer than his own hair. Aragorn still kneels in front of him, but there is something not right about the image. Something all too strange, and it takes a moment for him to register that Aragorn seems younger.

The smile on Aragorn’s face is familiar, unchanged over time. The moment is past and present, and when he feels the coil of rope around his wrists tighten, he feels his flesh respond. Giving in is a decision he does not need to make consciously.

“You know what I wish,” he says, relieved to note that the voice is his own and that he no longer feels so curiously divided and double.

Aragorn gives a little chuckle, reaching up to grasp his hips. “Yes. And I am happy to provide.”

He feels the urge to touch Aragorn, run his fingertips along the sharp curve of his jaw by way of encouragement, but his bound wrists hinder him. The rope tightens, pressing into the skin, but it is nowhere near the sharp biting feel of hempen rope.

For a moment, he catches wisps of thoughts that flicker in his mind like candle-flames. Wrists bound with hithlain, looped tight. A bared neck, lined with the lightest of blushes. Dark-gold hair hiding the face, but he would know that neck and those shoulders anywhere. His brother. The hand that slides along the blushing neck is likewise familiar, and there is no mistaking the ring.

So we both swore fealty to you in this manner.

“Faramir?” Aragorn rises to his feet. “Is something amiss?”

“No,” he stammers, feeling the images scatter and fade, “nothing. Merely memories resurfacing.”

“Pleasant memories, I hope?” Aragorn’s fingers skim along bared skin, waking a little skitter of chill and warmth all at once.

“Yes,” he lies. There is an insistent whisper in his ears, echoes of moans. He is unsure which are his.

For each stroke, each clever little curl of Aragorn’s fingers, he sinks firmer back into himself. The echoes fade. His surroundings swim back into focus: the stone walls with their tapestries, the muted wailing of the wind outside… As Aragorn leans in to kiss him, he responds eagerly.

When he angles his hands outward in another attempt to loosen his bonds, the knot slides open with the ease of a flower opening. The rope slides between his wrists fleet as a fish, as a whisper, before coiling neatly at his feet.

“I told you, the knots will not come undone until it is needed,” murmurs Aragorn, pressing closer.

He chooses not to hide his smile as he gently steers Aragorn toward the bed. “And ere the night is over, I imagine they are not the only things coming undone.”

[END]

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